The universe is thirteen billion years old, and it will go on – most likely – for thousands and millions of billions of years. In all the time that was, and in all the time that ever will be, there will never be another me. For one hundred years, born from one eternity and destined for another, I am here, alive, aware.

When all the stars, galaxies, planets and moons and asteroids, and when every single solid thing has been transformed to heat dispersed throughout the universe, and nothing remains, a trillion billion years hence, there will not have been another me.

At the end of my life, do I really want to look back at a long stretch of 9-5 days spent in a cubicle gathering material things which I’m too tired to enjoy after that 5pm? Then, when I’m done, do I want to look back and nod…