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In addition, no one today remembered why the war had come about or who, if anyone, had won.
Perhaps, deformed as it was, Earth remained familiar, to be clung to.
Mors certa, vita incerta,
He lived alone in this deteriorating, blind building of a thousand uninhabited apartments, which like all its counterparts, fell, day by day, into greater entropic ruin.
Eventually everything within the building would merge, would be faceless and identical, mere pudding-like kipple piled to the ceiling of each apartment. And, after that, the uncared-for building itself would settle into shapelessness, buried under the ubiquity of the dust. By then, naturally, he himself would be dead, another interesting event to anticipate as he stood here in his stricken living room alone with the lungless, all-penetrating, masterful world-silence.
Could not, even if he wanted to, emigrate.
