Warm Bodies (Warm Bodies, #1)

by Isaac Marion

But it does make me sad that we’ve forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else’s, because I’d like to love them, but I don’t know who they are.

The future is as blurry to me as the past. I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present, and the present isn’t exactly urgent.

I often wonder how old I am.

Once you’ve arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.

Our wild bodies have finally been tamed.

There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can’t cross it. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.

That vast cosmic mouth, distant mountains like teeth in the skull of God, yawning wide to devour us.

Death takes hold of him with retroactive finality.

When the entire world is built on death and horror, when existence is a constant state of panic, it’s hard to get worked up about any one thing. Specific fears have become irrelevant. We’ve replaced them with a smothering blanket far worse.