I had always wanted to be nothing. To have been an anaerobic bacterium in a water-butt. No light, no oxygen. To have left no mark, no trace. John Keats who, fearing his erasure from time, believed it would be none. Mine had been the complete opposite of that. To have undone every instance recorded of my existence, the grand impossibility of that had been my life’s quest, my yearning, my unicorn hemmed in and trapped and extinguished in my castle’s tapestry keeping out the cold. There had been a leaf frozen near the surface of the pond, a brown lily which when Spring came would decay and sink and become just mud again. Traces even of light had continued already 12.5 or 13.5 billion years. But just to have been! To have been the consummate inactivist, like a witness pulling the fan’s rope in the courtroom no one cares about or sees pulling the rope in the corner keeping the spectators and the lawyers and the accused and the defendants and the judge cool. Not even forgotten. Just never remembered.