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Choice one: after 120 contented and healthy years, in my sleep, next to a satisfied 25-year-old wife.
Choice two: on a remote English moor, lashed by rain and thunder, wielding a broadsword against a horde of half-demon necromantic warriors, as a magnificent diversion to allow my comrades to save the world.
Either way would work for me....
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Dull sublunary lovers love,
Whose soul is sense, cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
That thing which elemented it.
(From "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" by John Donne)
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