Dear Cheeniya, Your articles on death though have an unsettling effect on me I must admit that you don't deal with death as grisly immediacy but an ineluctable smackdown which is periodically brought to the fore to reflect on our mortal bearing and time-lapsed accrual of any misplaced pain, suffering, indignation, grievance that can to be jettisoned as we march towards crossing the vales of consciousness to darkly woods of nihility. I'm reminded of Dylan Thoma's poem which I read several years back and flicked with no sensory perception but the essence of that verse plucked me later Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.. — Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953 That battle-cry of "Do not go gentle into that good night" was an inconceivable howl till I realized it is not a war to win but a war to protract so that when I surrender I've no regrets of unclaimed second chances. When I capitulate I would not have lead an unexplained life no matter how strayed, wayward and at times battered it was with conflicts & dissonance around my convictions and social conventions. Even if I'm as scantily armed with mail and an axe to thwart that enemy I'd still fight just because I'm not done yet with MYSELF. So my swan song may not be operatic melodious or restful but a viking eldritch.