But that was New Orleans for you. The old didn’t die here. They were just forgotten.

After I die, I'll be forgotten.

As Beckett said, it's not enough to die, one has to be forgotten as well.

Rosehill was shady and beautiful, the most serene place I could imagine. It had been closed to the public for years, and sometimes as I wandered alone - and often lonely - through the lush fern beds and long curtains of silvery moss, I pretended the crumbling angels were wood nymphs and fairies and I their ruler, queen of my own graveyard kingdom.

I don't want to die an old lady.

I'll die a crazy old man!