January Twenty-Ninth, Two-Thousand-Sixteen

The world is dead. Everywhere one looks, one sees other people, but they are dead. If one were to approach them, interact with them, talk to them, they would vanish, and the grand illusion would break. If one dared disturb the peace, he would be faced with perhaps a more unsettling thought: “there is no one else; there is nothing else.”

Just dead people, he thought as he walked around. This made him sad. He felt alive, and he was alive, but sometimes it’s aweful hard to stay alive when everything else around you is dead. It kind of seeps in, like bacteria infecting an open wound. There are some defenses, but ultimately, it’s out of your control.

Sometimes he thought that there were others who were still alive out there, but he wondered how he would know. The pain of finding people as he could see they were, dead, was intolerable. Most of the time he hoped that he would find one of these live beings, but again and again, he was proven wrong.

All he found were hollow beings, leafless trees, and dark landscapes. There’s nothing — or no one — else.

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