Ideas of an imaginary place took hold of Bob’s pen, and soon his hand could scarcely keep up with his mind, so thoroughly was he transported to a place of his making.
All thought ended with him, a cutting realization which shook him to his core, pulling his heart deep inside for safekeeping for this last burst of existence, and prevented him from seeing the final beauty he was given.
Bob kept writing. For the first time in months there was no slipping towards escape and ships and dank rats, no glazed eyes that didn’t see and no dulled ears that refused to hear.
The last man in the world could only see his lastness, how he was the end. He missed out on how he was the beginning, the start of something he would not get to see grow but was instead chosen to be present at its birth. He calculated his remaining time and how he had spent the time gone by, agonizing over regrets of trails never considered. His boot stumbled through the red dust as he walked out into the sun and amber sky raining down from beyond the sharp peaks and rocks surrounding him. He could not wait at the table any longer. He had to go.
His pen stopped.
There was something here. No, not a physical person, not something to touch, but something nonetheless.