For what time I have left, I want to live in my own house, I want to sleep in my own bed. I don’t want to choke down 40 or 50 pills every single day, and lose my hair, lie around, to tired to get up, and so nauseated that I can’t even move my head. You cleaning up after me. Me, some dead man, some artificially alive, just marking time… no. And that’s how you would remember me.