"Oh friends below," he spoke in passing, "pardon my traversing. I cannot see how other roads could leave me less offending—unless of course—the road I chose is dusted with thy enemy."
The road moved East, bounded there by lamp posts melted. The last man walked, his shadow pointed, on, and on to city crumbled. The building there shorter now, but that was as it should be. Not one was left, that stood above—to rule—and litter lesser ones. The air moved thick with activeness, the last man knew its purpose. Death was near, of this he knew, but purpose had he also. Find he would the truth of man—his legacy of living. Men lived here, but now man walked—in search of purpose written.
"Those that come," the last man spoke, "must know of man—his greatness."
The last man searched each crater now, for treasures saved from burning. He finished this as shadows searched; moving East in passing. The last man walked, his treasure gathered; found a bank and entered it. He walked amid the roof-less thing, shaded some by walls still standing. He reached the vault, and stepped inside, each treasure found was taken too. He placed each one by walls of steel, closed the door, and locked it tight. Man must have a legacy, and on the wall he wrote:
"GATHERED HERE ARE WORKS OF MAN; THAT YOU THAT COME MAY KNOW HIM. THE NAMES OF EACH; (the last man writes,) THE ITEM LAYS BENEATH IT.
"Coke Bottles; Golf Balls; Lip Stick Cases; Powder Puffs.
"Soda Straws; Nurses Shoes; Prophylactics; Aerosels.
"HiFi Records; Cowboy Boots; Living Bras; and Neon Signs."
The man in dying took one sign, and placed it by itself. Alone it stood—in reverence—above it were these words: