Occasionally I like to think about my personal effects and daydream about their grim disposal after my death. Nearly everything I possess is completely ordinary and uninteresting, but of course the haunting quality bestowed on them by association with mortality would give these objects a temporary dignity. I have very little in the way of mementos or keepsakes, few souvenirs or other cherished items. After I die someone will probably go through my stuff (a thankless and somber task which for some reason thrills me to think about) and decide what to do with it all, if anything. A bunch of it will be trashed or donated, disposed of in one way or another. The unlucky person who gets stuck with this melancholy job will undoubtedly harbor unspoken resentment against me for saddling them with it and feel a little guilty for feeling that way, and this notion also excites me, in a shameful childish way. I mean all in all I'd rather not be cursed by my survivors but it's always nice to be remembered.

The best thing of course would be if my loved ones decided to have my room preserved as a shrine to my memory, every object not only kept but left exactly as it was when I died. To inspire such a morbid expression of grief would make me downright giddy. I should remember to do laundry more often, I'd hate my legacy to be compromised by soiled socks or carelessly-tossed cumrags.