Part 2

Here another page crept in between the cracks of a pier on the riverfront, dropping gently to the caressing eddies of the water (read the names: Smith, Smitha, Smitj).

And here two pages danced down into Central Park, pirouetted, promenaded, and finally came to rest against a propped-up piece of metal (read the names: Whit, Whita, Whitacomb).

It was not until the dusty morning sun stirred up the breezes that they fluttered down into the shallow hole beneath, unnoticed. The writing on the metal, until then partially obscured by the papers, became legible:

HERE LIES THE BODY OF THE LAST MAN ON EARTH-- CHARLES J. ZZYZST GO TO HELL!

End of Project Gutenberg's "Phone Me In Central Park", by James McConnell