These times are the days, weeks, and months I die. Much means little as time slips by and my knowledge passes to those who need all they can aquire, the young ones. What they do with my experiences, my droplets of advice, I will never know. For I will die and all that I leave behind is not fame and fortune, words or books, but the thing which drives us. So instead, I erase myself, leaning not on what people will remember about me, for it matters not as time and people eventually forget all. I erase myself, possessions, lost loves, the place in which I spend my last years. Whoosh gone, like the clean cloth held by an invisible hand washing over the chalkboard that my life has become. I erase myself for those who come after me, let them have a place to come up in the word without the cloudy and burdening remnants of what I was and what will inevitably be lost. I erase myself as these times pass, the cloth cleanly sweeping up the tracks I left on this ground, these people, this world. I erase myself.