At the point that I lay on my deathbed or find myself at the end of my life in whatever way that might come, I want to know with assurance that I squeezed everything out of my life and into the lives of those around me. I want to be wrung dry. I want to be a limp rag empty of everything. For if there is even the slightest hint of moisture within me that I somehow did not squeeze out into the life of someone else, I may have done well in life, but I nonetheless carried something to my grave that should have been left in the life of someone now standing at my graveside. And to die empty is the passion that wrings me dry in the living of my days.
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