what's the problem with going out doing what you love, it makes no difference to the people tied to your web. does it matter that you fell free soloing and had been scraped away like chewing gum under a diner table, that all that was left of you was a mushed mound of flesh. does it matter that you went out peacefully, like suicide on the beach, washed away with a message written in sand redacted by lapping waves, at least you’d have some agency.
the irony to have died by heart attack on your way to work brought on by a coughing fit, the last lives you touch inconvenienced by the congestion of I-95. thinking about the man you’d rear end, how he’d slam his door fuming blaring like a steam horn to no satisfaction, gazing upon your pristine sarcophagus.