…but they don’t change a thing. The idea of dying makes me sad for simple pleasures I will no longer have. Yes, I’ve heard it: “No brain, no memories.” But I hope my own brain ticks along until it doesn’t. And until the last, I will be thinking of cold beer on a hot day, a crystal sky, a mockingbird at dawn; of whiskey before my fire, a Scottish lament, the loneliness of a cold and wet winter’s day; of black coffee and morning quiet, of the art on my walls, of lying in the dark with someone who knows my secrets…

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