When I was young, in childish theory, life stretched out ahead, forever. As I aged, what lay ahead of me diminished, like a stick of licorice, bitten off in chunks. In theory, I could see: I would end up with nothing. In practice, however, the older I get, and the less physical life remains to me, I come to understand that life is only the formative stage of what I will, in death, become. Nothing may be nothing to some. To others: the absence of material clutter.