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  • Give it a hundred, one-hundred and ten, one-fifty, two hundred years after you're gone. Is anyone going to remember you? Will your descendants ever be able to find your grave and leave you flowers?

    Me? No.
    I'll be ashes blowing across the desert. One with the sands, the rock and the wind. My name will only be a whisper.

    And that's alright.
    I'm good with being free to roam.
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