Dithering

I wonder sometimes what people will say when I'm dead.
Which eccentricity will be remembered and repeated?
How many bits of paper will surprise?
How many secrets did I manage to keep?
Then I remember: it won't matter to me. I'll be gone.
Still, I'll work harder to tell the truth, because lies will poison everything.
I have dreams, visions of these things, all blurred together and confused
As I grow old.