Heart in the casket...

He is always a different man; a reinterpretation of the man he was yesterday, and the day before, and all the days he has lived. The past is gone, was always gone; it does not exist, except in memory, and what is memory but thought, a copy of perception, no less but no more replete with truth than any passing whim, fancy, or other agitation of the mind. And if it is actions, words, thoughts that define an individual, those definitions alter like the weather - if continuity and pattern are often discernible, so are chaos and sudden change. He is changing again.

And what a simple thought...

Everything I have become,, everything I will ever accomplish cannot compare to my most impressive feat: I have loved you, fiercely, and assiduously. With the very marrow inside my bones. So that when I die, they can crack them to find you there. So that when I die, they can open me up and see your name tattooed on the wall of my heart. So that when I die, my epitaph will neither commemorate who I was nor what I did, but will read: he loved. And loved. And loved. And so, I smile now, because that is no small thing. 

If I go, I'm going...