If dirt can kill you, so can a life that is sterile. But, to be honest, I have never really been afraid
of death, and I can only repeat after a sage: why should I? What terrifies me is the act of dying,
where the pain—which only eases a little with a dose of morphine—takes away the last vestiges
of dignity. It happened to my father, so it makes me think about what my end will be. Perhaps
eating a slice of honeydew melon while writing these lines is not exactly the height of decorum
and profundity, but the magpie squawking on my windowsill does not mind either. We are both
creatures of casual transience.