"You can take only one thought with you to the grave, and invariably it is a thought that bugs you..."

"... something that must be thought all the way through to the end before you find your peace. The thought I took was of a man I loved saying, 'You are a joke, and your life is a joke.' It cleaved to my head and my muscles and my bones, until I was nothing but those words. When my life collapsed inward�which is what death is, life collapsing deep into itself�that phrase remained outside the collapsing; it became a thing separate from me. And, because it was separate from me, I could take it with me�it was the only thing I had."

From an excellent New Yorker story by Sheila Heti titled "My Life Is a Joke."