When I let out the ghost, I would like to be embalmed here in my office in my favorite position: staring at the colorful screen of my computer, my legs crossed and propped up on the desk piled high with books and papers, pecking at the grimy keyboard in my lap. My clever colleagues toying with artificial intelligence and robotics could employ a few of their tricks so that I could continue writing my Residua forever. The content does not matter that much, anyway. The Institute could perhaps earn a few dollars by showing my animated corpse to the dumb visitors who swarm through the corridors in ever-greater numbers. This would not require much more than a well-designed window looking toward the corridor, and a few new lighting fixtures for cloudy days. The proceeds could be used to defray the costs of construction, maintenance, and repair of my tomb. Perhaps a small profit would be generated, too, so that I would remain a useful citizen of the Institute. Etc. These are pleasant thoughts, indeed. Because of the hum of the computer and the bright afternoon sun that bounces off the backs of so many books that line the walls, my office already feels like a very cozy tomb.