I'm made forlorn

By any renovating

Even if the walls were worn

Beyond speaking.

Now I roam the roads

Seeking some destination

But all the crows forebode,

Swooping down to defend their stations.

I'm surged with instinct

After stress recess.

The sense of stinging's

Cross-hatched abroad my breast.

I fell short of reassurance

At my pleas to flee

And escape the burden

Of being where I'm not supposed to be.

The mountain is ours!

We offered slivers and you left scars!

The valley is ours!

You took and took now we can't see the stars.

***

This is it. This is all there is. There’s nothing more over those hills. In fact, in a quite literal sense, there is nothing. Pure, unadulterated void. You've reached the edge of the simulation. No one was supposed to be here, really. We never really expected anyone to wander these roads. There was no real reason to wander them. There isn't much attraction to this seemingly endless canvas of splotchy dried field and grass. At least, that is what we thought. We thought there was nothing to see. But you made it here. For some reason you were attracted, piqued by the vast nothingness. And now you're here, at the edge. Everything generated has ultimately sprawled out to this point. It had to have an end somewhere. And this is where it has stopped sprawling. You may be fully inclined to have a look to see what's exactly over those hills, but we fear you may be disappointed. You will see nothing. There is nothing to see. Absolutely nothing.

I would consider myself a fan of music. In fact, I’ve been listening to music in some form or another almost my entire life; it’s quite possible I was before I was born. Over the years I have observed the rise and fall of several musical empires, acts and artists catching a hold on amorphous success, clutching with steadfast as long as the strength of their grip will allow. Some have managed to hold on longer than others. Some slipped off as quick as they grabbed on. Some are still clenching tight, their marble-white knuckles shining through contemporary skies. Yet there is one band that has captured the spotlight against all odds, even with their pasty, flabby, and untrained fingers.

The band I am speaking of is, of course, the rock-n-roll trio hailing from a quaint pocket of an Idaho Falls suburb, the enigmatic Saviors of the Saved. This band serves flagrant iconography to most every household in the United States with blaring noise and obscene presence. You could also find the same landscape of littered posters, CDs, and T-shirts in several countries overseas. The cultural zealousness for this group is unlike anything I had ever seen.

The line-up consists of drummer Bobby Zacharais, bassist Davey Lane, and the personality behind the modern day rock legend responsible for the group’s immense popularity, their fearless leader Dunstan Bedford. The band formed in the early recesses of 2018, when Bedford was struck with a nostalgic kind of inspiration which prompted him to contact the members of an erstwhile punk project which he participated in some time in late 80’s.

So Zacharais, Lane, and Bedford then took a deep dive into some of the purest form of dirty garage rock known to man, jamming out a set of five songs that would eventually be compiled into Saviors of the Saved’s debut EP, “Save Some for Me!” The EP released on Randy Joe Records, a relatively new record label on the prowl for fresh talent, in the sweet summer of 2019. To society’s collective surprise, the EP was a crushing hit, dominating the Billboard charts for weeks to come, even without any individual singles being released. Critics awarded the EP with high praise, with many claiming it was snubbed for the ever-prestigious Grammy award. The reception gave way to a dedicated audience. The dedicated audience gave way to extensive touring, even amounting to a world tour spanning over twenty countries.

Now, I have given Save Some For Me! several spins, maybe more than one could consider healthy and normal, but the meat of the music was never a taste I could quite acquire. The songwriting is at best basic, and the production is bare or even sloppy at points. However the buzz and boisterousness of everyone else’s reaction was so tangibly perplexing and captivating I had to dig deeper into the mind that is responsible for this pervasive phenomenon.

So I decided to contact the Saviors of the Saved’s manager while the band was on a brief gap between tours to try and set up an interview with Bedford. However, I came to discover the band was on a brief gap between managers. So then I attempted to get in touch with the horse’s mouth himself. Through a string of industry connections, which was thankfully short, and I got a hold of Bedford’s phone number. I then proceeded to make that fateful call. Bedford answered and we had a pleasantly cordial conversation, which, for me, was surprisingly out of character for such an up and coming rock star; you know the stereotypes about rock stars. We set a date, and he invited me to his studio for the whole interview to take place.

The day came and I followed the directions to the address he gave me. During the ride, I once again played Save Some for Me! to really dress myself up and prepare for the occasion. When I arrived, I was a little bit confused. I assumed he meant the band’s recording studio and not his personal studio apartment. I walked up the stairs to his second-story residence and rapped politely on his front door.

After a brief wait, Dunstan Bedford answered and welcomed me inside. The apartment was neat, yet unexpectedly sparse of decor. He took a seat on a white faux-leather couch while I found comfort in a white painted armchair set not too far across from him.

Bedford was dressed to impress, but not too formal. He wore a modest grey blazer adorned over a white v-neck. However I did find myself overwhelmed by the scent of his dollar store cologne. I could tell he was nervous, his face red and sweaty behind his freshly-trimmed goatee. After initial pleasantries, we got down to business. I started a new recording on my phone, and opened up with a, “How are you doing today, Mr. Bedford?” and, with a wide smile that tried to prove his confidence, he responded with a classic, “Please, call me Dunstan.”

“This may be a strange question, Dunstan, but what does your name mean to you?”

“Well, that’s a question you’d have to ask my momma, but to me it always seemed kinda badass. Almost like I was born to rock-n-roll.”

The only reason I asked this was because, in my research, I had discovered he legally changed his name back in the 1990s. I was hoping there would maybe be some deeper introspection as to why he changed it, but now I’m guessing that he just thought it sounded cool.

I wanted to know more about the Saviors of the Saved’s history, or the history before the band formed to be more specific. A Wikipedia article could begat any paragraph with raw dates, locations, whatever, but I desired a more intimate explanation in a flavored language.

“Well, back in college, a few of my buddies started a band called The Grueling Tuesdays. Ya’ know, we were inspired by bands like Sex Pistols, The Ramones, Chumbawamba, you know bands like that who really took a stance against authority and, uh, conformity. We wanted to make something in that same sort of anti-establishment kind of vein, which was reflected in our name. And our name was jab at the never-ending work weeks and this machine that the system just grinds us through. But we also wanted to mix in some influences from bands like Zeppelin, Van Halen, you know more melodic and serious bands but with a rock edge like that to sort of make us stand out.”

As he spoke, I noticed he would wave his arms about, similar to a professor giving a lecture on their specific field of expertise. I guess that was fitting, as who would be a better expert on the Saviors of the Saved?

“Uh, we had some success. We weren’t famous or anything, but we made enough cash from gigs we didn’t need to have a full-time job or anything. The chicks we would get were also suh-weet!, you know what I mean?”

He paused for a second, I guess to make sure if I did know what he meant, so I just replied with, “Yes.” and then he continued.

“I think at our peak, we opened for Nirvana as they were getting big. But overtime, the passion kinda faded. We changed as people and our music didn’t really reflect our views at the time. I got married to my then wife and had our little Jasmine. We just decided to end things as we drifted our separate ways.”

“Did you do anything else as The Grueling Tuesdays?”

“Yeah, we did have a short reunion tour a few- dang, it might be more than a few- years back. It wasn’t a big thing or anything, just for a bit of fun and any fans that might have remembered us.”

There was something in his tone that indicated he enjoyed reliving these good-ole’ days, maybe a little too much, but I also detected there was a hidden pain underneath, like there were some things that he maybe didn’t want re-exposed in a present light.

“So I guess that brings us to a couple years ago, I think, I was cleaning my storage shed and I came across some of my old guitars and amps, and it got me remembering those early stages of The Grueling Tuesdays. I felt like I was, like, inspired by those same feelings I was back then. The feelings of anarchy and oppression and I felt like I had to do something with those feelings. So I called up my buddies- we kept in touch somewhat- and I asked if they wanted to jam out. And the two that were interested came together and we formed what you now know as Saviors of the Saved. And that first song on the EP was sort of based on that story.”

The first track on Save Some for Me! is titled Rockin’ Loud. The title reigns true; it is a tight song clocking in at two minutes and forty-five seconds of sludgy, raw, unfiltered, and loud rock-n-roll. The song cuts right through the chase and opens up right into an admittedly catchy and driving chorus which repeats three more times through-out its course, hammering in the point of The cops showed up! And busted us! For rocking loud!

“That chorus is also based on a true story!” Dunstan proclaimed. I asked him about it a little more, if the confrontation with the police was scary. But then he went on to explain that one of the neighbors had only come by and threatened to call the cops if they continued to make so much noise.

The lyrics in the first verse divulge into his story of rediscovery and re-inspiration. However, instead of that storage shed, the lyric reads, I found my old gear cleaning my garage. When I pressed about this detail, Dunstan admitted he had to shape the line a little to fit with the following rhyme, It got me missing my old entourage. In the grand scheme of things, I guess the difference doesn’t matter all that much. All things considered, I would say this track is my favorite on the EP, however superficial and transient it may be.

“So, tell me about the other members of the band,” I humbly implored.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Davey and Bob are both great guys. Davey, as you know, is our bass player. In college, we shared this economics class together. We found that we shared very similar views on life and issues and everything. We basically had the same goals we wanted to accomplish with our music. You know, sometimes I think we could be the same person. Shoot, Bob and I go way back to high school. We were in the same sort of punk scene and bonded over that kind of music. We went to a bunch of shows together and we really just meshed really well I think. And Bobby is like a machine on the drums, you know. He’s insane!. And you know, they’re all such talented musicians. The song ‘Don’t Awaken the Beast’ is a good demonstration of this as we get more technical and everyone gets to show off what they can do.”

“Don’t Awaken the Beast” is the second song on the track-list. It seems to be a more subtle type of song. While it is loud, it doesn’t thrash as much as the previous track. The bass lines through-out the song are more nuanced and complex, whatever that means for this band, and can be heard breathing even under the noisy drums and guitar. While the drums don’t show off much, they are steady and throw in some interesting variation every now and again. The guitar part still offers a basic power-chord progression, but it does go into some more melodic riffs as the track enters a more instrumental direction.

“There’s a little studio trick we use there. Since I am the only guitarist, I can’t play two parts at once. So I recorded the chords, and then in another take, I played the whole riff-y part.”

Instead of being a raw thrasher, this track seems to be going for some kind of progressive, darker feel to it. Personally, I’m not convinced it’s really achieving what it’s trying to. The lyrics detail an insidious warning to not awaken a mysterious beast and the miserable consequences if you end up doing so.

“So, what is the beast, exactly? Is there some symbolic meaning?” I inquired.

“Well, you know any good rock-n-roll song has got to have some, you know, subtle sexual innuendo,” he replied with a sly laugh. I decided not to pursue any further questions on this matter.

“So, Dunstan, what sort of things usually inspire you to write a song?”

Dunstan looked up, pondering the white stucco ceiling and gave a scratch under his chin. “I’d like to think I reflect life at large in my lyrics, stuff that can resonate with really anyone. A lot about love. Actually, we have a song I wrote that explores the innocence of love, and that there should be no shame in loving someone. When there’s a connection between two souls, it is untethered and unbreakable. There’s no penalty in love.”

“Which song is this?”

“It’s called There’s No Penalty for Love.”

There’s No Penalty for Love is the third track that shows up on Save Some for Me! It’s another song that comes in swinging and abrasive. The guitar and bass drive the composition with a crucial force. The simple chorus’ explodes with energy as it shouts the eponymous line, “there’s no penalty for love.”

“Yeah that was also a song I could really show my guitar prowess. I busted out this sick solo, which I don’t mean to brag or anything, but it was completely improvised.”

“Uh-huh.”

“When writing the lyrics, I did have a certain person in mind. It was on that reunion for the Grueling Tuesdays, after one of the shows this chick made her way backstage. She said her name was Claire. Now, this broad was smokin’! I mean she was irresistible. I knew we had a special connection when I gazed into her eyes. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. I know it sounds cliché, but it was like fate had brought us together. So, you know, we spent the night together.”

The song’s verses describe woes and tribulations that one may be penalized and encouragement to persevere and to simply play the game of life. Love will find you, and there’s no consequence for it.

The song that proceeds it bears a more depressing tone.

“So what’s the song You Saved Me about?”

“That one’s one I wrote a while back but I repurposed and added some stuff for the Saviors,” Dunstan’s face took a forlorn drooping, “I wrote it the morning after my ex-wife found me in bed with Claire. She ended up divorcing me, taking custody of Jasmine, and due to the divorce agreement she’s now getting half of everything I get from the band. Claire also left me and I haven’t seen her since. I wrote the song about her. It’s a desperate attempt to try and win her back, but deep down I know she’s gone for good.” I noticed a single tear gently flow down the side of Dunstan’s cheek.

You Saved Me is the heartstring-tugging emotional ballad, demonstrating that Saviors of the Saved can not only rock, but can also deliver a powerful, raw, personal, tear-jerker of a song. The sweet, soft acoustic guitar transitions beautifully into a devastating second verse which also introduces a melancholic electric guitar to beef up the impact. Dunstan also delivers the second guitar solo of the EP here, a dramatic and yearning piece that will truly bring a teardrop to anyone’s eye that will experience it.

The room sat silent, the pressure of past memory weighing down. Dunstan stared down at the carpet as though it were an immeasurable distance away, becoming lost in reminiscence. I don’t know how long I waited with awkward patience, but eventually I decided to snap the silence like a glow-stick to try and liven the mood a little bit.

“You mentioned one of your previous tours before. What has touring been like for this particular project?”

Dunstan looked back up, his face easing back into pleasant smile, “Well, it has its ups and downs, as you could imagine, but it’s been treating us alright. I’ve never seen crowds so rowdy and ready to rock for any show I’ve played. It’s amazing to see how much our music really connects to the hearts of these people.”

“How do you get along with Dave and Bobby?”

“You know, I’ve got to be honest, things are a little bit turbulent between us.”

“Turbulent how?”

“I don’t know, things are just tense. I think all the attention is sort of getting to their heads. They’re thinking they’re all high and mighty and they’re responsible for all our success. Dave as of late has been demanding that he wants more bass solos. I gave him one somewhat reluctantly on one of our songs and I thought that would be enough. Bob’s just been aggressive. He nearly punched one of the merch guys. I think being on the road has just been getting to him a bit. I kind of feel like the glue keeping everyone together.”

“There are only five songs on this EP. How do you flesh that out into an hour plus long performance?”

“Well, obviously we’ll play all the songs off of Save Some for Me! at some point. We learned a bunch of covers, a lot of crowd pleasers, just for this reason. Some nights we’ll go into these sick jams for a little while, you know really feeling the music and letting it flow through your soul.”

“Do you guys have any more songs written?”

“Yeah, we have a few we like to bust out sometimes. You might be able to find some bootlegs on YouTube or something.”

“Are there any plans for a full-length album in the future?”

“You know, I’m not so sure about our future as a band. I’ve written enough material for a full album, but I’m not confident we can pull it together enough to crank anything out. All the pressure of this has really taken a toll on Dave and Bob. I honestly don’t think they’d have the chops to get this done. I’m thinking after the last leg of this tour is over, I might be going solo and putting out an album of my own. Don’t put this in the interview.”

“So we’ve discussed some of your previous musical influences, but what kind of music are you into right now?”

“Oh, more of the same. New music these days is a bunch of drivel and junk! However, I’ve been getting into this band called Greta Van Fleet. They’ve nailed that Led Zeppelin sound down, so it’s like I’m getting a fresh dose whenever I listen. They’re pretty innovative.”

At this point, there was only one track on the EP we hadn’t discussed yet, a track entitled (She’s Got That) Wow Factor. It’s a brief and succinct two minutes and twenty-three seconds of that classic Saviors sound I think to serve as a palette cleanser after the emotional journey the rest of the record takes you through. While the instrumental is akin to the first track, Rockin’ Loud, the lyrics spout out onomatopoetic ramblings of things that “she’s” got. As much as I want to like it for what it is, it just leaves this slimy feeling on my insides, making me want to take a long shower whenever I listen to it.

“I want to talk about your song Wow Factor. Why did you write it?”

“Okay. I wanted another banger we could just jam out to. It’s nice to play a more simple song where you don’t have to focus on the lyrics, you just have to focus on the raw music flowing through you.”

“Do you think this song is objectifying women a little bit?”

“What? No.”

“There’s literally a point where you do the cat-call whistle.”

“Well, I wrote this song about a very specific woman. You know, a very specific she. I wrote this song about Claire, actually.”

“But do you understand how this can be interpreted in a different way? It’s implied that you’re boiling women just down to their looks. You know, that’s what-”

“But it’s about only one woman’s looks, not all of them. And you know what, I think if she were to hear the song, she’d be flattered. To me she really does have that ‘wow factor.’”

“At the level you and your music are and how far you’re reaching, it may not read like that, it’s indicative of something-”

“But I’m writing it about a specific person. I don’t know what’s so sexist about that.”

After noticing I couldn’t drive my point across, I decided to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“So, how does your daughter think of all your success?’

“Well, I’m hoping she thinks it’s cool. I haven’t actually talked to Jasmine in a while. After the divorce I moved out and I guess we grew more distance. The last time I saw her actually was a couple years ago at her high school graduation. We shared maybe a couple of phone calls since then.”

Dunstan broke eye contact and shifted his gaze toward the carpet.

“When she was still a baby- well, a baby to me- she did show some interest in music. You know, she’d sing her own made-up songs, dance along to everything, stuff like that. Sometimes I’d see her sneak in my room at night just to strum my guitar on the stand.”

“Davey has a kid too, doesn’t he?”

“Oh yeah, little Keith! I’m sort of like an uncle to that little man. So weird to think of how fast he’s grown. He actually helped engineer the recording for our EP after watching a couple of Youtube-y videos. The boys thought it would be cool for him to be involved.”

“Did he work on any other projects before?”

“No.”

“I can’t remember, does Bob have any children?”

“Nah, nothing could anchor ol’ Bobby down. He keeps saying that he wants to find ‘The One’ and settle down somewhere, but I know deep down that he is always going to be sniffing out new talent, you know what I’m saying. Actually, earlier this year he broke up with his last girlfriend. He seemed kinda bummed about it and it kinda showed in his performance on stage, but I know those five years meant nothing to this man.”

“Do you think you want to find another love?”

“Ah, I don’t think so. I’ve lived that life, you know what I mean? There’s nothing really more to learn and nothing really more to teach.”

So we bounced back and forth another series of trivial questions, but the conversation yielded nothing more of note. I don’t know if I gained any more insight into this crazed cultural hivemind, but I do think I scooped out a piece of Dunstan’s soul. I’ve analyzed it. I don’t know if it’s anything I could clearly put into words, but I know this man. I’ve met him several times before. I’ve met him when I worked as a cashier and he cracked a joke he thought was too clever. I’ve met him at old record shops, rambling about the classics and how new music just isn’t the same. I’ve met him when he would promptly cancel school for the day and take me on a road trip to the city. I’ve met the same man, just different versions.

We wrapped up our pleasantly cordial exchange, shared a firm handshake, and I went on my way. I drove home with the radio turned off, lost in pseudo-philosophical musings. I think Dunstan considers himself as a savior, arms reaching out to thousands upon thousands of people, reaping their affection. But in some ways, it seems Dunstan may be lost, searching for the pieces of himself that have been scattered over the years. For whatever version of Dunstan is here right now, I bid farewell and good luck. Nothing more to learn, nothing more to teach.

---

https://saviorsofthesaved.bandcamp.com/album/save-some-for-me

Will it be dark out?

It was so kind how the moon would breathe

Gentle wind across the silent town,

Playing with the silhouetted trees.

"So what do you say?

Do we take a chance to sink or swim?

Or would you like to uselessly wade

In the obsolescene of your limbs?"

I'm standing at the cliff, looking on downward

With one foot in front and one set back.

If I stumble to the sea and become submerged

How much of myself remains intact?

Even lovelier still

Were the embers on the mountain side.

Little incandescent films

In which the actors compose their lives.

So I propose we meet

And I'll wipe the sweat spawning in my hands.

Then we'll take a running leap;

We won't know the difference between wave or land

'Cause at a certain height things have the same impact.

"Did you actually think that you could be dead

Even after you heeded the consequence?

Hold your fragile frame and try to relax.

You do know that the worst is still yet to pass?

Did you get all you expected?"

As the whir of my joints hum aloud,

I don't even know if I feel stronger now.

Is that shine of the sun still meant to endow?

I'll wait until we build eternity to figure that out.

I found myself standing again in the middle of a road belonging to some obscure town of some name nobody would bother to remember. With a ball-point pen and an open sketchbook equipped, I trace my vision of squat businesses and apartments, immortalizing them on the page. I’m trying to hone in on even more immaculate details, recording any intricate texture or faint glimmer as accurate as possible, in an effort to pad every second of my schedule as I can.

This isn’t even the first time I’ve participated in this particular artistic study. I’ve drifted through this tiny stead more than a handful of times before. Already I’ve broken into each building, mapping the neat labyrinth of rooms and walls with great care. Already I’ve taken astute notes of the now-strange remnants of the lives that vanished so inexplicably. However, after examining the story of so many individuals, the repeating motifs blur into dull patterns and desensitivity.

I’m not sure of the exact reason, but this corner of what could be called the United States continues to beckon me. I’ve commanded conquests to the sprawling concrete webs of Tokyo, the ancient habitat of Damascus, and the then futuristic topia of Dubai. I’ve cartographed the intense monoliths of Los Angeles, Guangzhou, Jakarta, São Paulo, Mumbai, Pyongyang, Melbourne, Hong Kong, and so many other feats of mass architecture that evade my immediate memory. These megalithic titans make these walls of varying, decorative hues and late 1800’s architecture pale in comparison, yet these minimalistic streets yield some unmatched charm. Maybe it’s the coarse familiarity. Maybe it’s the closest concept of a home I desperately want to return.

I took a moment to reflect on the ink now uniting with the paper, and decided the itch to return to these parts had been scratched. The image bordered on a life-like quality, minus the color. Perhaps that will become a project for another day, but for now my business is concluded. I zipped open my backpack and deposited my sketchbook among the small stockpile of matches, candles, lanterns, and maps. The electricity stored in batteries has long since dissipated, so light vehicles such as flashlights were out of the picture. The luxury of gasoline has also fallen into a mode of obscurity, so my primary transportation is a trusty old bicycle. Driving an electric car would be an absolute dream, but no matter how many ways I try to design and rig a farm of solar panels, the result remains a failure. So, for now, this mechanical method of transit reigns champion. The trip back to headquarters will take about eight days, but that's nothing these days.

In fact, I decided to stretch my route out a bit longer by rolling through the scenic path. The wind bracing my face as the asphalt and trees and towns fall behind me is a cherished doldrum. It’s these periods of tranquil reflection that let me forget about the state of the untenanted world I’m ensnared within. Even with this meandering detour, these places I've passed through are all too familiar. It's with profound regret that I have to say I became dry on adventure years and years ago.

Before I knew it, I emerged from the blur and into the sobering acropolis of New York City, USA.

The New York City Public Library seemed like an entrancing and competent place to plant my operations. I always found the expansive concrete domes adjacent to ceilings of ornate metallary and paintings have an endearing and awe-inspiring charm. The abundance of bookshelves are also a valuable amenity for my collection of notes, maps, and illustrations. I stationed my bike just outside the gates of the Rose Main Reading room and ventured inside. I usually do my best to leave the books in their original resting place, but for my own selfish purposes I emptied the shelves on the west wall of the upper floor to make room for my own illustrious volumes of junk. It’s not like I displaced anything I haven’t read anyway.

Underneath the large, arched windows looming over the spacious gallery of lengthy tables and chairs no longer occupied, I had adorned banners made of construction paper and bubble letters announcing the genre of each shelf: Maps!, Notes!, Day Tallies!, and Sketchbooks! I had balanced a ladder against the lower west wall when I first settled in and utilized this advantage to cut up and over the protective rail looping around the secondary level and I used it to quickly scale to my destination. I unzipped my bag and returned the sketchbook to its rightful home on the Sketchbooks! shelf. I also returned the cache of map books to their respective home. I then waltzed over to Day Tallies! and lifted one of the custom leather-bound books containing exactly five-hundred (one-thousand if you count the front and back) pages. I opened it up to the final page, ignoring the near identical pages that preceded it, and stared at a grid comprised of precisely three-hundred sixty five squares, each box filled with a black X, except for twenty ultimate ones which are only now dormant as I had neglected to bring it with me on my brief excursion.

Each X represented a single day. I began marking the boxes to catch up on the lost progress, but I got caught up after the nineteenth. I couldn’t help but stare and ponder about the ancestral contents before it. Not only the existing calendars in this copy, but also the four-hundred ninety-nine editions sleeping soundlessly on the shelf. And after this brief lapse of sore contemplation, I pressed forward to officially complete my 500,000th year.

It was approximately that long ago I had designated myself as a scribe of the streets. I would travel from village to giant village, meticulously investigating every room of every building constructed by human hands. I would become an expert on every corner of every winding road that could ever savor the pleasure of being blazed. With diligence, I would record the minute details of the cumulative endeavors of the talented and decorated species I survive. I married myself the boulevards and avenues simply because there was nothing else better to do.

I exist as a sole inhabitant. In all this time of wandering and spelunking, I have yet to even encounter a sign of fresh human life. Empty automobiles litter the roads, locked in their last patterns of traffic, awaiting a master that will never come back. Possessions are left in pristine preservation, unaware their owners vanished into absolute nothing. It took a while, but I eventually acclimated to this unprecedented degree of solitude. At some point I actually learned to enjoy an existence belonging all to myself, but now it seems that lesson has since slipped.

I can just barely remember the morning I awoke to this distressing silence. I can just barely recall stepping out my door and being awestruck by the absence of anything. The birds that seemed to praise the dawn with inane chatter were gone. The neighbours and dogs that patrolled the eight o’clock streets were gone. Any sign that a creature other than myself could breath was dumbfoundedly gone. The only apparent evidence of life rested in the greenery. While I could still appreciate how the leaves and reeds interacted with the wind, it didn’t take long to find out their growth was stunted, frozen at the state of development when I first emerged to dance on this farcical stage.

The weather is also stagnant. Apart from the occasional white, graceful cloud floating across the sky, the world is perpetually sunny with the thermometers clocking in at a base of seventy-four degrees. The heat of biomes, I discovered, scaled to their respective geographic placement. At some point, I capitalized on the ample opportunity to measure the cycle of each day and night; from sunrise to sunrise I found to be exactly twenty-four hours.

I no longer need to worry about thirst or hunger, or really any other bodily necessity. In fact, at first, I tried to indulge on former favorite snacks in the absence of societal responsibility but couldn’t keep down the sludge. I have found that if I concentrate enough with my eyes closed it is possible to induce myself into a state of sleep, but in all of my experimentation I haven’t been able to conjure a dream.

As for pain, my body still has a way of screaming that something is wrong. Even to this day, my toes are not immune to the occasional stubbing and subsequent swearing. There was one time, out of boredom, I was balancing on the edge of a skyscraper in Singapore when I stumbled and took a sudden plunge to the ground beneath. My bones remained intact, but the immense tidal wave of anguish kept me glued to the asphalt for at least a week before I could muster the strength to stand.

To this day, any hypothesis of what could have set me in my current situation has yet to be proven. I’ve entertained the idea of being set deep in some elaborate coma dream, but as far as I remember, I was never caught in such a crippling accident. I’ve also thought it possible this could be some kind of afterlife, but, if so, is it a punishment? I never led a particularly malicious life nor a remarkable one. Maybe the latter of that fact is the key issue if this truly is a purgatory. This could also be some vivid hallucination, but I always thought myself of a sound mind and abstained from psychedelics. But I guess I would never know if I was actually bonkers. In any case, it doesn’t matter too much because this is how I exist now.

And how I exist has become excruciating to bear. I’ve always had the occasional wave of despair, but as the years continue to stretch, each round becomes stronger and persists longer with little waning inbetween. There are only so many cities to revisit and retrace before you come to the conclusion that everything is exactly the same. The abandoned lives of people become so predictable and the patterns that emerge are so recognizable the art of expedition becomes mundane and hopeless. The one desire gripping the focus of my mind is that I can somehow be pulled into an oblivion and my mortal fabric is shredded asunder until I can no longer process my own awareness.

I spent the next few days browsing the palaces of New York City, traversing what I thought could bring back some sense of novelty. There are more buildings than I would have realized that have hidden rooms and passages embedded inside, absent from any floor plan or blueprint. The deceitful design always brought this dumb smile on my face, but this time the secret maze of the Woolworth Building failed to inspire any wisticism.

However, while staring out a window at the pin art landscape and blue beyond on the fifty-first floor, I was struck with a sudden urge. There is seldom anything left that can instill fear in me, and the ocean is one of them. Back when I was first learning to sail to the transatlantic continents, I became lost for something like two-hundred years, despite the wealth of compasses and books about star-navigation.

It almost pained me to think of falling into that global pool, becoming lost forever in the one nook of the world impossible to check. But the thought that panging me begged the possibility that the ominous water may be the benevolent void to strip my soul or spirit, or conscience, or whatever from this morbid realm. What if the water flooding my lungs disrupts the oxygen flow to my brain and shuts down all my senses and imagination? What if the millions of pounds of pressure make me implode like some pathetic, empty can of soda, destroying any possible activity? The prospect was exciting, but on the other hand, what if the drowning doesn’t extinguish the fire and I’m left in a perpetual state of anguish? What if instead of being an optimistic future, it exacerbates the desperation and hopelessness? What I want is an end to whatever this is, not a hell without a devil.

For the next month or two, I mulled over the proposition, weighing pros and cons , until I approached a grand conclusion: just screw it. In the worst case scenario, I would adjust to a more literal form of black nothingness and numb existence. So I embarked on my sailboat docked on the Hudson River toward the endless blue, ignoring any and all reservations. I floated on with blind determination past the empiric skyline that I have grown to see in great detail even with my eyes closed.

It was with almost flippant bliss I watched the obelisks disappear behind the horizon, being erased forever. Every metropolis, city, town, village, house, street, path, monument, or any slight sign of human interaction that remained on land was being erased. Every film, painting, book, scripture, or idea by any human that has ever been conceived was being erased. As I drifted into the expanse of pure blue, I was being utterly erased.

I voyaged upon the calm, lulling waves for a couple days, until I reached an undeniable point of no return. The mere sight of the water and weight of the gravity of what I was about to do seemed to surround me like an envelope before even a foot submerged into the inky void below. The breeze was light and felt pleasant as it brushed past my skin and hair. I began disrobing everything to firstly, bask in the warmth of the sun in its entirety before I fell too, far out of its reach, and, secondly, for comfort. Wearing wet clothes drives me insane no matter what condition of fate I’m in.

I walked to the edge of the deck, bracing for something that is impossible to brace. I was hit with the first taste of sweet adrenaline I’ve been graced with in an unfathomably long time. I almost felt obligated to savor the swelling beat of my heart and the slipperiness pooling in my palms. I hoisted myself onto the side of the boat and sat; the waves were high enough to make intimate contact with. I tested the water by first dipping my toe in the water, reflexively recoiling at the brisk chillness. Then I gathered an immense amount of courage. It was going to take a lot to convince my apprehensive muscles to force themselves to plunge into the deepness. With great impulse, I shoved myself off the sanctuary.

The cool water felt surprisingly refreshing as I sank more and more. Out of involuntary instinct, I held my breath even as I saw the last beams light occluded by the surrounding darkness. My guess is that it was around three minutes before my lungs began burning, demanding another dose of air, but I was still afraid of what I would discover if I drew that imperative breath. The raw sensation exploded to a point I had no control over and it forced me to inhale.

The consequence that followed was the one I never considered. It was strange, the saltwater flooded in with a hammering force into my lungs, but that was about the extent of the pain. I exhaled and it flowed out with more or less the same ease as the atmosphere I abandoned. The second breath was almost as surreal as I could focus on the reality without the hindrance of anticipation. It was as if the entire ocean was composed of perfluorocarbon instead and I was never informed. Vexed, I continued to respire against all sensible, lucid logic.

I don’t know exactly what I expected from all this, but it definitely wasn't anticlimax. I sank deeper and deeper down; blackness had totaled the scope of my vision a few leagues up. It didn’t really feel like I was sinking at that point, it was more like I was suspended in animation, floating in some dimension that didn’t exist. I did feel the pressure steadily increase, but at some point the invisible hugging plateaued and I was able to maneuver my lims freely and withstand it all without my bones being crushed. I thought about attempting to swim upward several times, but some foolish glint of pride persuaded me that the best course of action was to keep drifting down, until I eventually collide with the seafloor.

It was impossible to gauge exactly how long it took for my feet to touch the sand, but it was long enough to enter a state of dissociation that the grainy silk rudely jolted me from. I didn’t know what to do except to stand and appreciate the fresh sensation of solid ground. Now I could sense the flow of a gentle current sweeping past my knees. While I was blind and deaf, it was still so luxurious to make contact with solid earth again.

Then I began to walk. I walked forward. The sand mushed itself between my toes as I marched in some direction over the undisturbed ripples of ground. I had no end point in mind; it was quite impossible to determine a destination anyway. I only knew I was positioned somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic without any indication of where dryness could be.

So I walked. There was the odd occasion when I would unexpectedly scrape my shin on a hidden boulder or step on a particularly sharp stone that would penetrate through the meat of my foot. Yet, this sudden pain was sometimes more of a relief than a nuisance.

The first time I saw a bright orange blur appear in my vision I was instilled with such profound elation I was on the brink of tears. Real tears. Tears of immeasurable joy. Tears of a kind I can’t remember feeling before. What I had discovered was a magma vent. They were rare, but whenever I stumbled across one I had to spend an extended visit to admire the brightness and radiant heat before setting off on my adventure again. Light can be addictive when being deprived for so long.

In a weird sense, all of this was liberating. Each pebble and rock and miniscule incline and insignificant bump were all new. I could appreciate each detail without obsessing over the process of recording them because I physically could not. These were my own moments to hold and nurture and remember and then to forsake and never see again. This was a sacred garden I was only temporarily allowed to stroll through, but once I’ve taken my tour I couldn’t be let back. But like the surface life, there was only so much grainy terrain to cover before things began growing stale.

Then, I don't remember when exactly, I felt the floor start a steady incline. The hill kept growing taller, enticing me with it’s unprecedented ramp. I continued to walk up. The weight around me began feeling thinner and thinner the more I climbed. Then I saw the dark soup around me wax to a little bit of a lighter shade. With even more reinvigoration, I walked a little bit faster. Then I saw the breach of a light beam. The taste of sun manifested itself in my mouth as I broke into as much of a sprint as I could. I was now at a point of pristine blue colorfast bombarding my vision. It seemed as if my elation was tied to the still desaturating field of periwinkle. And then I could see the ground I was walking on in front of me.

The tide helped me beach onto the shore and I arrived on all fours. The saltwater filtering through my lungs spilled out in a violent wretch. The burning pain I had dreaded of the initial plunge now presented itself in full force. I continued, in torture, coughing out however many decades worth of water stored within my organs. After a few minutes of this fit, I collapsed with not only exhaustion, but with intense joy. The coughing soon transitioned into involuntary laughs as the sun baked my naked body.

In all the excitement, I didn’t get a chance to view my immediate surroundings. The beach hosting me was an immaculate white with what seemed to be the matching white buildings of San Sebastian, Spain behind it. I sat for a while, not knowing the last time I was able to appreciate a view as familiar as this. It was like being embraced by the arms of a family you finally decided to visit in a while. But there was a thought at the back of mind reminding me this feeling of reunion won’t last long. Soon, the existential fatigue is bound to settle back into its familiar nest. For now, though, it's nice.

I got up and began touring the small slice of coast. While the sand was hot, it was still nirvana to know it was dry land. Moving through air was almost foreign; it was so free and light compared to the oppressive depths I had emerged from. The sound of the waves crashing coupled with the clean day brought an intense atmosphere of serenity. I wished there was some way to encapsulate this moment and this could be the eternity I occupy until the sun forfeits its iron will to go on.

Then I noticed a peculiar impression in the sand. The pattern of jagged ridges was almost eerie. I recognized it at once: a shoeprint! Then the print revealed itself to be a piece of a trail. My immediate thought was it must’ve been left by myself, but then I remember I left my shoes on a boat in the middle of nowhere. I never imagined it would become useful, I actually ruled the possibility to be laughable, but the knowledge from those books on tracking I studied long ago came in handy. Upon inspection, the prints were a bit faint and I deduced that they had to have been left a few days before. The wild sense of adrenaline returned at the manifesting reality of someone else inhabiting this ghost world.

There was no way, right? Such a wrench in the machine of this level would be preposterous. But I had to play the only option I was presented with, and with a frothing cocktail of skepticism and hope, I began following the prints to where the sand met the wall at the top of the beach.