If it were possible to die I might someday, but I’ve never done and can’t imagine it. Received wisdom says it’s like sleeping, but how would anybody know? Besides, I do even that alertly, aware of my position in the bed, and my wife’s, and the dog against my leg. As I amble through dreams I’m already wording my journal entries about the Spanish inquisitors, Scottish mentors and unknown lovers I meet.
I think I’ll become like oatgrass. I’ll be without a self, without awareness, but I still will be. Or maybe I’ll finally finish that Celtic rock throwing game.