Last winter, when so many Living joined the Dead and our prey became scarce, I watched some of my friends become full-dead. The transition was undramatic. They just slowed down, then stopped, and after a while I realised they were corpses. It disquieted me at first, but it’s against etiquette to notice when one of us dies. I distracted myself with some groaning.

Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.

No praise, no blame. Just so.

I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.

I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.

My friend "M" says the irony of being a zombie is that everything is funny, but you can't smile, because your lips have rotted off.

Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.