Someday I will no longer call out, and there will be no heartbeat. I will be dead. What happens then? From my point of view, nothing. Absolutely nothing. All the same, as I wrote to Monica Eng, whom I have known since she was six, “You’d better cry at my memorial service.”
From the essay I do not fear death by Roger Ebert, who passed away today. Yesterday, Iain M. Banks announced he has terminal cancer. It’s a bad week for writers I like.