Apocalypse

He still walks. And that is enough. The world has fallen silent, burned by its own excess. The earth has turned to ash, the sky to an open wound. And yet, he moves forward. Slowly, steadily, cloaked in an orange that screams against the smothered world. His mask is no disguise, but a boundary — between what may yet be saved and what must be forgotten. He is not fleeing: he is watching. He is not searching: he is guarding memory. In this landscape of ochre and ruin, every step is an act of faith. There is no more language, no more law, no more visible beauty — but there is still the march, still endurance, still presence. He is post-history’s man. Not a hero, but a remainder. And that remainder is sacred.