When you come close to the last page of a notebook you have been carrying around for a while, a dear and precious notebook harboring sundry marks of your existence, including random stains and smudges bearing witness to your many pitiful habits, you start fussing about it, the notebook, even if you know full well that it contains nothing to deserve its preservation. From time to time you are so annoyed by the relic-to-become that you are just about to tear it up or toss it into the bushes, and yet you know that you would never dare commit such a dashing act of destruction, such a sacrilege. After all, this excessive care, this gripping anxiety about the fate of your creation and its byproducts, which sometimes reminds you of gods themselves, who are often nearly ridiculous in their relentless fretting, is the only indication of your own worth that is easily accessible to you. So, feel free to fuss. Once you fill it up, put your well-worn notebook away for posterity. Together with your other notebooks, it will be torn up or thrown away soon enough, perhaps even before you give up the ghost, but certainly not long afterwards.