I wrote. I danced. I played.

My great-grandfather, who had a burr in his long johns like me, pedaled by bike across the United States in the late-1800s, stopping along the way to write for the Tombstone Epitaph in Tombstone, Arizona Territory.

It is nice poetry that a newspaper be called an “epitaph.” Our acts may outlive us, but more likely they will be tossed out like yesterday’s paper.

Julius Caesar said: “Veni. Vidi. Vice.” (I came. I saw. I conquered.)

I would scratch out those words and put different, better ones, in their place.

What is the point of conquering? I really don’t get it.

Heading blithely down the road to our own deaths, our only triumph is to have made the universe tremble with our joy.

When I die, if there is an epitaph, I want it to say that I enjoyed my days, that I filled them with joy. If it is of any use to anyone who comes afterward, I want them to know that I wrote, I danced and I played.

And that it was more than enough.