There ain't a thing you can do about your death, but there's something to be done about the road there. You can choose to travel over glass shards, let your tires slowly deflate, or go off roading in ditches full of oven and dishwasher carcasses, an elephant graveyard for outmoded technology. You can choose to use the scythe at your side or follow the ruts that deepen with each passerby. It is a delusion that the road has no memory. The act of observation changes the observed. The road never forgets. It outlives you, your generations.
You can choose to settle for comfort or to drive with the top down through a hailstorm, laughing. And who will protect you out there? Whose hands will pull you from the jaws of the death of your career as unassisted lanspeed record holder, when your leg's trapped under the chassis that slipped from the grip of the tire jack? Who'll be there to help you laugh it off or feed you your medications when the cancer finally overtakes your ability to regenerate throat lung and cervical cells? Who indeed? Who in deed will make you forget that this life is brutish and short? You can choose. The pendulum forever swings away from you. Grab its singular, weighted huevos and ride.
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