Why am I doing this? Why do I want to know the names and functions of all the beautiful structures I've spent my years violating? Because I don't deserve to keep them anonymous. I want the pain of knowing them, and by extension myself: who and what I really am. Maybe with that scalpel, red hot and sterilized in tears, I can begin to carve out the rot inside me.

The undead airport has its own crowds but no real activity. We don't do things; we wait for things to happen.

I assumed it was perfect, that everyone was happy and beautiful and wanted for nothing, and in my numb, limited way I felt envy and wanted to eat them all the more

Mi amigo M dice que lo irónico de ser un zombie es que todo tiene gracia, pero no puedes sonreír porque se te han podrido los labios.

This female and I have fallen in love