the last man.
next to the remains of a broken piano there is a notebook of music. with simple white sheets, ruled and four-lined, ready for usage. the pages are empty, no compositions nor great symphonies. just the blank unwritten notes that do not yet exist. and as the dead instrument next to it, it produces no beauty. there can be no enjoyment by the listener. this musical grave adorns an abandoned tavern which used to house the local night-life in it’s entirety. but now, many years after it’s last visitor made their exit, and after a drifting low-life broken in and smashed the box of keys and strings, the once lively room is a tomb. centuries pass, millennia fly by. the piano has been consumed by those small bugs which fester in dead-wood, but the empty notebook of music lies still. and the mind which once conspired to fill it’s pages with the music of his soul will never be made mention of. his music died with him. for what use did the world have for such a man?
far into the future, buried deep beneath the ruins of an imperial military base, should the earth still remain, there will be found a small container made of plastic. and within this small storage device will lie five notebooks. they will be the literary works of some anonymous figure of which no trace will exist. and upon their finding, the pages shall be ripped from their binding to be used as tissue-paper for a young girl who has a cold. c’est la vie.
