Sometimes, I press my hands to my face to touch the bones of me. A cheekbone here, my jaw there, the hollow places where my eyes are set to look out on the world. I wonder what I will seem to the ones who come across my grave in some future, far away. Will they think, here lays all that is left of a mad man or will they think, here lays the remains of a man who lived once, long ago, who loved and laughed, who travelled the world, now forever still. I push my hands harder now against the solid structure that gives form to flesh. It gives way only slightly. I feel soft, but I am stronger than these.