So this story is probably  never going to be discovered by a superior extra terrestrial life form a thousand years from now, because, why would they bother? I used to look at my hand after learning to play the electric bass, and think, "Someday, an archeologist will dig up my mummy, and notice that my thumb muscle is way pumped."  He or she will wonder about whether I represented some evolution of the species. God what a megalomaniac I was.  Why was I mummified, and what the hell was an electric bass?

The point is, millions of people got crashed, crushed, eviscerated, and just, DIED,  when that astroid hit, and nothing on earth will EVER be the same.  Well, maybe some things will, but not me, not Jilly, not love.

Humans on the planet, have failed to rally to the cause of marching in little rows back to the ant hole. The ACT OF GOD was so daunting, that all the ants are still wandering around like free agents not cooperating with each other any more than necessary. (To feed themselves, preserve their progeny etc.)  Nobody really cares that I may never see Jilly again, and I may have gotten entirely screwed out of everything I thought was supposed to happen. I might as well burn this journal when I get cold, because right now I can't  imagine why I would  to try to save it and fuel is fuel.

I'm sitting on the edge of a precipise. In the distance, I notice the light appears golden as it filters down on an encampment of about 60 people.  They all have that numb astounded expression, but they're keeping busy.  That's it...don't stop. Don't think.  Don't look too close. Wait a minute...I know that guy! How the hell did he get out here?  That's Jilly's next door neighbor!  Nah.  Yeah!  I start sliding down the ridge, against  the shail (which aint nothing nice,) grateful for my boots. 

Against all reason, the tiniest purest hope is born in my heart.  Maybe... if HE got here...