For what time I have left, I want to live in my own house, I want to sleep in my own bed. I don’t want to choke down 40 or 50 pills every single day, and lose my hair, lie around, to tired to get up, and so nauseated that I can’t even move my head. You cleaning up after me. Me, some dead man, some artificially alive, just marking time… no. And that’s how you would remember me.
Little by Little, We Can All Do a Lot.