I know why some artists burn all their material near the ends of their lives.

I know when I go, I'm tempted to take everything with me. You see some sort of value in anything I did, you should given me some sort of good cheer for it, something I could take some satisfaction from in return, while I was alive. Otherwise, when I go, it goes.

Not that I'm thinking about checking out anytime soon. Or that I'll definitely delete everything before I do.

Perhaps feeling a bit unappreciated, though. I don't do much for anyone's approval other than my own, but enough shows of disinterest from the world at large do occasionally drag even the most self-sufficient of spirits down a bit. And lately, there've been a few.

And as I round the further corners of middle age, still feeling, rather more keenly than I'd prefer, the difficulty…