Still here. Still breathing. Just a man on a big, green, silent rock.
It’s been months since I heard another human voice, and sometimes I catch myself talking to the mannequins in the shop windows just to keep my vocal cords from rustling like dry leaves. The silence isn't like the quiet of a Sunday morning—it’s heavy. It’s the sound of the world exhaling and never breathing back in. The Last Man on Planet Earth
Being the last one isn't about the loneliness—you get used to that. It’s the weight of being the only witness. If a tree falls in the forest and I’m the only one left to hear it, I guess I’m the only one who gets to decide if it made a sound. Still here
I spent the afternoon sitting on the roof of a skyscraper, watching a pack of wolves hunt through the overgrown grass of what used to be 5th Avenue. The planet is doing just fine without us. Better, actually. The air is so clear it hurts, and the stars at night are so bright they feel like an accusation. It’s been months since I heard another human