Everything gets forgotten. Not just you and me. I forgot my keys. Forgot the meaning of the word misbegotten. Forgot the name of the poet who wrote that love is the original light that disperses into all colors. Forgot the name of the one who said a self portrait always gets painted in its original color. We all get forgotten. The best you can do is to become a name like Thomas Jefferson, like Marlowe, like Epictetus. Nobody remembers them. Every history is a myth. Every poem a kindly lie. Every essay a sheepish apologia. All light emerges from darkness. And to darkness does it return. It’s best to be forgotten. Our only hope is that the last person who remembers us finally dies. Then you’re a poem. Tucked between the covers of a book you hope some kid will someday read. This is the art of life.