I suppose I imagined I was building a legacy, a bulk of work that would exist long after my demise, my oh so brief encounter with this precious globe. Looking back the idea seems a most reasonable enough, not too grand, just sufficient fodder to give an impression of mine thoughts, feelings, imaginings, dreams, but most vitally not to overwhelming, grandiose, important, or meaningful. I would so enjoy being quoted, misquoted if the newer version was better. I do on occasion make little sense, shine a focusing spotlight, circle a word writ large on the chalkboard of human education.
Reality says my score or so volumes will but gather dust on a shelf and then quite rightly burn to bring a modicum of warmth to a cold pair of feet. A most apt and provident finale, almost Shakespearian in comedic irony, trees cunningly converted to printing paper and then used as plain old kindling upon an open hearth.
A plaudit comprising of faggots, an appropriate eulogy in so many ways for this almost Anglo-Saxon son.