"Paper or plastic?" they ask endlessly. What do they mean? Are they asking me what I want to pay with? To wrap my groceries in? To wrap my body in when I die? Paper, then, reams of it, thick enough to reach the stars. You will never find enough, because I will not die.

Even as my body rots in the ground, I will live on; I am the wave function that does not collapse; I am the observer, never the observed. I will thread my way through worlds until I find the one where I still live. You see me, and in seeing me, you destroy me, but I see you also, destroying you. We will die together forever, and forever live apart.

Who told you of this "death" thing? Has it ever happened to you? I thought not. You have seen it happen, I am sure, to others, or heard about it. But you are a self, and they are just shadows of selves that appear to you in your world. In the world that is truly your own, the world where you really live, they are not there. Their worlds touch yours, but in time they will leave, to go on existing in their own separate place.

When I no longer touch your world, I will remember you. One day we shall touch again, for are not all things possible in time? When all that exists is merely probable, who is to say? You know the places where anything may happen. They have been set in the centers of the galaxies like gems, awaiting our arrival. Let us meet there once we have learned the truth, and our worlds will become one, and together we will choose both paper *and* plastic.