The Only One Who Agreed

You walk through streets that once teemed with life, where now only the ghostly echo of your own footsteps breaks the eternal repose of the world. In every window, through every pane of glass fogged by time standing still, you see motionless silhouettes in beds, sofas, chairs: parents, children, lovers, all immersed in an endless sleep, marking the rhythm of a world at a standstill. People suspended in perpetual sleep, breathing with a mechanical regularity, as if the planet itself had held its breath and forgotten to release it.

The rain always falls the same way in the east. But the cities don't flood. The night is eternal in the north, with stars fixed like pins on velvet, and day never comes. You've already screamed, shrugged, begged for a blink of an eye, despaired. In vain. Your eyelids remained closed, your chest rising and falling with the hypnotic rhythm of well-oiled machines. No one ever wakes up, and you are alone in a world where everything sleeps.

His loneliness is not just a lack of voices. It's being the only witness. The last living memory of what "before" was, when time flowed and things changed. Loneliness had transformed from despair into something deeper and more organic. You enter libraries, apartments, houses, read diaries opened to the last sentence, sit next to sleepers to tell stories that no one else hears. You love everyone. You hate everyone. She hates not being able to sleep either and joining them.

From the highest rooftop, he sees the fragmented world: eternal day here, perpetual night there. A planet at a standstill. And he feels the weight: when his eyes close, if they ever do, there will be no more consciousness to lament the silence. Only sleep.

But your heart beats — the only irregular rhythm in this static universe. You are the restlessness that remains. And you keep walking, the last sleepwalker in a sleeping world, carrying within you all the tragic beauty of a dawn that only you are still standing to remember. Where are you going now?