In less than 10 minutes the world would end.

That fact didn't scare him, as he had more or less mentally prepared for this day, months or maybe even years ago. He was much more concerned with the blank sheet of paper sitting in front of him. He had been somewhat of a moderately beloved author in his earlier youth, but now he was a clean slate of ideas.

 Why the hell can't I think of anything worthwhile to say? He thought maybe for a moment he felt a bit of inspiration coming on but it was fleeting and the clock's insistent tick and the sounds of neighbors crying and singing and praying was beginning to drown out all of his cognitive abilities. No. Not today. Last chance. Think, there has to be something that he needed to get off of his chest, it shouldn't be this hard to be honest with yourself. He laughed nervously thinking how silly it was that even in the face of certain death, he was still too self aware and yet simultaneously detached from his own thoughts to be real with himself. It can't go down like this. He picked up the pen and put it to the paper, the clock was inching closer to doomsday (or Doom Infinite as the cooler, less noticeably shell shocked kids were calling it) indeed-every second.

7 minutes, 6 minutes, 5 minutes. Fuck me. 4 minutes, 3 minutes. I am destined to be the world's last great sham. 2 minutes. I need a drink.

Once there was only one solitary minute on this earth left, his grip on the pen and his anger and frustration suddenly began to ease off until he was calm and relaxed, holding the pen in between his middle two fingers, resting on his palm- the only way he had ever been comfortable holding anything capable of putting lines on paper.

The singing, and laughing, and crying and praying was almost impossible to hear now beyond the overbearing sound of oncoming waves and unstoppable heat. He stood up and walked to the wall. Fuck paper. He put the pen to the wall.

Dear Me, he started and the whole damn world went black.

It was the most truthful thing he had ever written.