On Homer
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Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man.

When the last man sits alone in his bunker, what will come of him? The world outside remains a hell of his own creation. It was not his in particular, but one of that which he represented. This man was a farmer, a cultivator of the soil. His father had been a farmer, too, and his father before him. The line of agricultural tradition had continued in this man’s family for as long as anyone could remember. If anyone else remained, perhaps they could have told him differently, but nobody else did.

The world outside was not the sole creation of the man, but the creation of every man who had existed before him. The sins of his father, and the sins of his father before him, and the weight of the sins of all of humanity now lay upon the shoulders of this lone farmer, in his lone bunker, in the swirling storm of dust and ash which pelted his doors each day.

Outside the man’s doors, the bodies of the rest of humanity remained. No one remained to mourn for them. Perhaps, in their final moments, they wondered if they were the last. In reality, the last man had no idea of his importance.

The man had spent six months in his bunker. In these six months, his food stocks had dwindled to nothing. With no food or water, he was left with no choice.

The skeleton of the last man on Earth was found not more than a few feet from his bunker. There was no fanfare. What creatures remained on earth continued to act as they always had. His bones were picked clean by insects, and bleached by the afternoon sun.

Life continued on.

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