slamming my fists on my knees while whispering goddammit repeatedly at 2:52 AM
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slamming my fists on my knees while whispering goddammit repeatedly at 2:52 AM

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Reading ttmd; ttms chapter 15 and I am BEGGING YOU MICHAEL ON MY HANDS AND KNEES TO PLEASE FORM A THOUGHT
i cannot overstate how hot direct communication is.
Just, going to someone "Hey, I want you to brainwash me until all I know is you, until there is nothing inside my mind except what you encourage, and then use me, please."

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Do you feed me? Brush me? Soothe me? Am I safe?
I wonder, as I feel myself dissolve into sadness. I have to sit down, and I try to remind myself: talking is only one way of relating, and perhaps we rely too heavily on it, forgetting that we can also connect through gestures, sounds, glances. I think about the nonverbal and preverbal entities in our lives: animals, newborns. They don’t want our explanations of love; they want to see it in action. Do you feed me? Brush me? Soothe me? Am I safe?
— Tory Henwood Hoen, Before I Forget: A Novel (St. Martin's Press, December 2, 2025)
The problem with From is that this whole fucking town is full of people who would hide the bite if they were bitten in the zombie apocalypse. Every single one of them.