My desires for my death seem rather boring when I think about many of the things I’ve done in my life. I imagine a beautiful well-lit, sunny, room of warm off-whites. It has painted wooden floors, a large Victorian bed covered in sumptuous cotton, and muslin hangs at the windows. I’ve very old, wearing a characteristically androgynous nightgown, wide awake and conscious and accepting of my imminent departure from this world. Lots of people I love visit me, there are some tears, but people know that I’m comfortable with dying which brings them a sense of ease. They come to say goodbye. When I’m gone, my body is used for whatever recyclable value it has in research, or composting. People remember me as someone who aimed to live their life with sense of personal authenticity, and wished that for others.