Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.
Of course you forget, Peter. I was present at an undersea, unexplained mass sponge migration.
…from the third greatest movie of all time, which is infinitely better than anything Bradbury ever wrote.