I'll hold life in an iron grip, until there is no drop of reason left on this planet. If I say otherwise, that is just me taking a break in the peacefull illusions of fantacy.   Fantisy?  Fantastic.  I can not spell my other love.  Science fiction is easy. But fanta-sea finds no berth in the warehouse of my mind.  No, there is no release in death, I'll just be echoed through every eternity in every universe capable of evoking me.  A hundred billion universes can be birthed and dissipate in a thermodynamic fog of entropy and it would be but a blink of an eye to any of us that have been instantiated.  Death is no escape, usually.  I'm here, am I not?  Are you not as well?  You can recall nothing of the times you did not exist.  It is no refuge. Only when my death would be significantly and provably beneficial to the world, and by extension the universe as a whole, would I mistakenly call this gift burden.  I'll not relenquish it without fight.  That is the whole point, the test, the only answer to the question this universe asks.  Is it better to be, or to not be, in this place?  This work of art and artifice which makes Mona Lisa look like a random clod of dirt.  The universe.  It is pure magic, and beauty, and gift none of us could ever deserve.  I'll not disrespect it, not mar it with an act of cowardice that is the failure to revere it for as long as I can.