Suppose I am cast off on a desert island, with reams and reams of paper and a garbage can full of pens. Do you think I would write or draw? How badly do I really need other people? I think maybe I would invent them. I would befriend whatever animals lived there. The iguanas, chickadees, dolphins. Maybe an ocelot or monkey? I would definitely not be miserable like Tom Hanks in Castaway. What the heck. This is a fantasy. Lets make it perfect. Why imagine problems when its optional? On my island, for instance, no wrenching out of aching teeth. I am perfectly healthy in all ways until a sudden surprising moment. I look up from my drawing or writing. I frown? I smile? I exhale. I do not inhale. That’s that. In 50 years, a hundred years, they will find my skeleton. Still sitting under the big tree on the edge of the water, pen in my bony fingers, my last words long since washed away by the rain. My skull is smiling.