In 100 years, no one will know my name. No one will know I swerve to avoid the wooly worms crawling across the road in the autumn. No one will know how, as a child, I would lay in bed and worry about my mother dying or being taken away from me. No one will know I consider my four-legged companions members of my family as important as the bipedal ones. No one will know that a single bar - or a single note - of music can wring every bit of sorrow or joy from me, or to which songs that capacity belongs. No one will know the battles that rage inside me, the sorrow, the heart that breaks daily, the world seen through my eyes, the confusion about which world is real, the despair and desperation that are frequent companions. The charred remains of my corporeal body will be all that is left. The essence of who we are dies with us, leaving nothing. People will walk by our tombstones the way we walk through ancient graveyards, gazing at stones whose etched words are worn away by wind, rain, and ...