Whenever I hear John Keats' epitaph, a sick, little tremor ripples through my belly. Consider what it would (and maybe will) feel like to know that not only are you going to die, but your entire life--all of your suffering, wonder, love, and hate--was for naught? You won't be remembered, your life won't be thought of, you're name was writ in water. There will be nobody there to shed a tear, and you might as well have never been.

John Keats was wrong, for he was brilliant--his poetry is a thing of wonder, and I and others will remember his name until death. But what of you? What of me? What will be when we no longer are?