I can tell you how it will end.
The world that is now so large, will end up being very small. You may have jetted over seven continents and own a famous painting and an estate in the Berkshires, but in the end your final days, weeks, months, and perhaps years will be reduced to just two or three rooms and only a handful of people.
The garden that you carefully planted, weeded, and pruned will fall into disarray and then it will be revitalized again by another hand before finally falling to chainsaw, mower, and push blade. In the end there will be no evidence at all that you or your garden ever existed.
Your possessions will be recycled, your small treasures and memories tossed in a bin, or sold at the back of an antique store or flea market.
Nothing lasts, and you are no exception.
If you are lucky your atoms will come back as a dog or a wolf. More likely your atoms will come back as dirt, puddle, weed, or bacteria. You should be so lucky as to come back as a flower that lasts a week.
This is the harsh reality: Life is a cosmic joke, and death is the punch line.
This is how it will end.
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