W.B. Yeats had a damn good thought in “Tom O’Roughley”. No need to trudge through the poem here. Go read it on your own time. If true pleasure is carelessness, then oblivion, which is death, can be nothing but the quintessence of pleasure. Damn bright guy, I think. He smashed a point here that can be driven two different ways: death is the greatest of pleasures or the greatest pleasure isn’t understood right. “Aimless joy” he calls it. I may be wrong about how I came to interpret these fluid lines. Though, the poem did end with someone dancing on his friend’s grave, and so I concluded that whoever danced on his favorite chap’s grave must have thought that it was a good thing. For him or the dead guy, one. I don’t relish dying at the moment. I think I have come to a place, a shitty place, where I’ve accepted it, but haven’t really come to true terms with it. I’ve not shaken death’s hand, and am running as far to the back of the line as damn possible. Dance on my grave and I’ll yank your fucking leg under.