“The image of again, and so many of your friends already gone, and strangers in the seats of the mighty, who do not know you, or your triumphs, or your incredible value. Above all, perhaps, the image of a need greater than hunger or sex or third, a need to leave a thumb print somewhere on the world. The need for immortality, and by admitting it, the knowing that one has carefully inscribed one's name on a cake of ice on a hot July day.”