Maybe this is why I sleep only a few hours a month. I don't want to die again. This has become clearer and clearer to me recently, a desire so sharp and focused I can hardly believe it's mine: I don't want to die. I don't want to disappear. I want to stay.

He is spent. His mind is mercury again, its brief surge of humanity melting into an oily residue on its surface, and he no longer understands the feelings he felt in that strange moment on the overpass. But he did feel them. They did happen. They rest on the murky seabed of his mind, buried under sand and silt and miles of grey waves. Patient seeds waiting for light.

I feel the flatline of my existence disrupting, forming heartbeat hills and valleys

She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.

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

The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. "There's nothing left worth saying.

I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.