I heard that everyone must leave something behind when he dies.  A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a fence repaired. Maybe a satellite floating in space, or an archery club, or a heavy coffee table on wheels with 1970s bakery tea-room tiles on. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look up to the sky at night and see that bright light flashing across the sky, or watch their TV, or draw their bow shooting their arrows at gold on that archery target, or put their mug down on that coffee table, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. (Adapted from Ray Bradbury’s novel Fahrenheit 451)