When I know I’m near the end of dying, I will not quit working, at least not creating, until the last breath. I will want to, perhaps. I will break, perhaps. Losing dignity, losing the ability to go among people, losing even my sense of self, I may not be able to do business or make love or see friends or do more than weep bloody tears, but I will write with that blood in some way, if I must. And if I am spared a bit longer, then let it be to not forget that it’s that important.