today in lecture i realize that i want to die in a village where you can tell what season it is by listening to the songs the villagers sing. school children will sing songs of spring in the morning as i leave home for work and that night as i return on a beaten path, i will hear an old guitarist cry like winter soft rain. maybe that place is somewhere in vietnam, or the southern coast of france, or somewhere that i don't even dare to imagine, somewhere out there in the deep blue wide, a place of footprints in the sands, burnt bread in the air, and the moon dancing on our roofs.

my last words would be "everything in its right place," but quoting radiohead would be corny, especially such words as those.