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.

The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, I loved that book.

Came to . . . see you.” “But I had to go home, remember? You were supposed to say good-bye.” “Don't know why you . . . say good-bye. I say . . . hello.” Her lip quivers between reactions, but she ends up with a reluctant smile. “God you're a cheeseball. But seriously, R—

Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?

What I'm saying is, when you have weight like that in your life, you have to start looking for the bigger picture or you are gonna sink.

I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.

And yet ... But what if ... I want to do something impossible. Something astounding and unheard of. I want to scrub the moss off the Space Shuttle and fly Julie to the moon and colonise it, or float a capsized cruise ship to some distant island where no one will protest us, or just harness the magic that brings me into the brains of the Living and use it to bring Julie into mine, because it's warm in here, it's quiet and lovely, and in here we aren't an absurd juxtaposition, we are perfect.