This is how the world ends with embers on the horizon that used to be office towers. With cities turned into tombs for those who couldn’t escape the collapsing buildings fast enough. Why did you want to live on the 100th floor?
I dashed away tears with my shaking hand. Why was I crying? This is what I’d wanted–an end to it all. No more cubicles, no more staring at clocks that refused to tick down to five so I could leave. No more bosses and no more restrictions on my time–total freedom is what I’d craved.
My extreme fondness for solitude had mushroomed out of control. I’d ignored the warning signs. I’d pretended my work wasn’t at fault. But it was. I’m the author of it all. Now I have my freedom and a whole empty world to rattle around in.
But what good is it to be a writer when all the readers are dead? Four and twenty ravens caw their answer to my question as they fly overhead. I wonder if they like stories.