You don't survive an annihilation of a planet by being careful, strong or prepared. You do it by being lucky. Which I never was... now that I think about it, maybe the lucky ones were the ones who perished in the first strikes. The not so lucky ones who fell in the fallout. And the truly unlucky.. are using their last pieces of paper to contemplate their thoughts. A diary might seem silly to keep when there is nothing left. To be honest, by now I would have expected grotesque mutants to roam the fields around me, but there is nothing. I sat outside for 19 nights - there wasn't even a howl in the distance. Where have all the crickets gone? It's always so quiet. Only the wind to keep me company. So a diary, even though there is often nothing to write about, is something loud. Thoughts are loud. Maybe one day, someone, yeah someone, will find my remains here. On this rocking chair in a house amidst the fields. They will wonder what was my story, and oh, I will have provided. A diary in my lap. A detailed description of the life of a man, who had nothing.

It's not just the diary though. There are many little things that are loud. Like superstition. Like today I dropped a fork by accident. It means a woman will visit. Hope she'll like my cooking. I even brought out the china. It's not every day you open a fresh can. I even heated it, but it's getting cold. Maybe she is just a little late, there is still time till midnight.

There was a knock on the door a few minutes ago. I hid in a cupboard and eventually came to the conclusion it could have been the wind. We get along, but she does like to play with me. Though, when I peeked outside the fields and the trees stood still, as if she wasn't here...

Somebody knocked again, I can see a figure standing on the porch. I have to go.