Although achieving absolutely nothing of note during my time on Earth so far, I still daydream my life and its prospective works will deserve grander commemoration than reduction to ash and the undertaker's second cheapest urn.
Ego whispers that my head's noble profile would look well sculpted in marble and placed on a plinth, perhaps sandwiched between similar balding monuments to Homer and Plato, or at least lined up alongside neoclassical busts of those long-forgotten Victorian worthies, Wackford and Igbertson.
I've a better idea, Id suggests, a Sphinx-like statue of yourself, reclining in the sand, would better suit your personality. Although, instead of a lion's body, your head will be attached to the torso of a panther. And it doesn't have to be sand, either, Id continues, we could do you in grass, which is undoubtedly more your northern European style. But such a verdant memorial obviously risks resembling a Chia pet.
Listen to me, Super-Ego says, no matter what additions to the sum of human happiness you may make, a simple rectangular plaque is all your life requires. "Here lies one whose name is writ in medium roasted coffee."
But these are nothing but the deluded mutterings of an idle mind. Judging by my current lack of literary endeavor, posterity will be most indulgent to provide any container whatsoever for my mortal remains. Indeed, I can foresee just a anonymous mass of flesh and bone left for science to do with as it wilt.
I wonder who this guy was, the trainee anatomist asks. Probably one of those old-fashioned bloggers, his supervisor replies, you can tell by the crazy-patterned brain cells and the curvature of his spine.