The Last Man On Planet Earth Today

I woke up today and realized I’ve stopped looking at my watch. Time doesn’t really belong to anyone anymore; it’s just the sun moving across the floor of this empty library.

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

Still here. Still breathing. Just a man on a big, green, silent rock. I woke up today and realized I’ve stopped

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. The silence isn't like the quiet of a

I found a guitar today in a dusty apartment. I don’t know how to play, but I plucked one string. The note echoed down the hallway, vibrating through the floorboards. It was the only music left in the world. For a second, I felt like the conductor of a ghost orchestra.

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.