The first generation zombies chose it. They knew, or thought they knew, what they were giving themselves, and they welcomed the excuse, the freedom from blame, as they set the world on fire—and it isn’t a consolation, for the rest of us, that they quickly regretted that choice.

For the rest of us, trapped in decaying bodies, unable to speak, trying to communicate with people who immediately try to kill us in response, desperately hoping for an end to the pain that never comes, even when put through everything that would have killed you before, even when torn apart, feeling the pain of every shred of your former body no matter how separated it is from your shambling central mass—insanity is a blessing, when it comes, and makes us truly like them.