"VI VERI VENIVERSUM VIVUS VICI. 'By the power of truth, I while living, have conquored the universe.'" I’ve always seen myself as a writer. Ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted to sit and chat with Tolkien, share a cup of coffee with Lewis, and drone on with some dreary oration at the clubs where young writers come for inspiration and jazz music. When I was littler (and I’m not very big now by most peoples standards) I would write long stories that made no sense to anyone but me that told of Dragons and Halflings and small green creatures that I’d read about in Grimm’s fairy tales. I always wanted to write an epic fantasy, some arduous sojourn taken by a group of close friends to defeat the ultimate evil. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized that everything I’d written was a carbon copy of The Lord of The Rings with poor grammar and semantics errors. I’ve always seen myself attending my friends funerals (How’s that for a switch of pace?), odd I know, but for some reason it’s there. I’ve always planned on out living everyone I know. I see them passing away in their sleep or being hit by double buses or catching the plague. People tell me I’m morbid but I don’t think that’s accurate. I just want to live forever. I often wonder what people will say about me once I’m dust in the haze of L.A’s skyline. Will they say that I was loved, or that I taught love? Will they spit on my grave and steal my drapes because I was not saved by midnight visitations as Scrooge was? Or will passerby smile and say “Oh, Mr. Parker died. That’s a pity. He was a nice man.” Will old men tell their grandchildren about my life with details that were fabricated or left out as they hand them a dusty book? “You’ll love this, I’m sure of it. Benjamin Parker was one of the greats.” I guess the point is I know I’m not going to live forever, but in some form or another, I’d very much like to be immortal.