I had another of those dreams a few nights ago.

I was burning the last of my possessions. The things that like barnacles have stuck to me. They burned. My books manuscripts drawings all burned. They curled turned to ash blew away.

These, and the trinkets I’ve carried with me through my life. They twisted bubbled melted. Became black smoke, and vanished in the bright coals.

My parents were there.

Well their shadows in peripheral corners were.

They didn’t speak they never do.

So I fed the fire with all I still had. I cleansed myself of my worldly parts. It was time. On impulse I shoved my hand into the fire. …don’t ask. It was cold. Burning ice. Dante wrote that hell is a cold place. The greater the sins the lower, and colder you get.

Being mortal I’m not so lucky. No unknown country awaits. Me you all mortals. We vanish. Viruses great oaks lady bugs all of us go back to Oblivion. At least that’s how it looks.

On the other hand. When you do good it’s for it’s own sake. It ‘is’ it’s own reward like fortune cookies tell us. None of us has an account in paradise where our good deeds accrue interest.

We’re spiritual paupers. I think we’re suppose to be. So just be kind, and generous as best you can. Not for reward, but because we should.