Is the assurance about being turned into parchment? That we will go on after our slaughter if we can be turned into paper? Or turned into art? Or turned into writing? I think I may be a sheep or calf in this arena. I do find assurance in knowing that some piece of me will live on after me. That I leave behind me a large body of work. Even if no one ever reads it or finds it or enjoys it – I am assured somehow that I labored for something that has meaning to me if no one else. If that makes me a sheep, I’m okay with it.