A man walks into a bar
He sits down at a table and sobs violently
He takes out his hunting knife and begins to carve words into the wood
This is what he writes:
There is no point in a suicide note
I am the last survivor
I have wandered in desolation for five years and found nothing but destruction and the ravenous creatures
Empty shells, a hungry remnant of humanity
I suppose if there is life out there, one day this may be found and it will be an explanation and a monument of sorts
These crude etchings, an echo of ancient times
It is not for me, but for all of us
We killed ourselves, this so called human race
Now with the last of my life, I write
How foolishly, I waste myself on chronicling my journey to my journey’s end, how human it is
Because I exist, I am “in myself and for myself" but my philosophies will die soon
I am the last heat in a dying coal, the exhalation of a dying man, and so as I cease to exist, humanity goes extinct.
He finished writing, and felt his leg
The open wound left blood on his hand
He checked,
one left,
cold metal on his temple
He grimaced,
and with a big bang,
the world ends