Neurologist and author Oliver Sacks is dying. His piece in the New York Times is beautiful and sad and true and haunting. I love it. This part resonated with me in particular:

"There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate — the genetic and neural fate — of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death."

The world will be a poorer place without you, Mr. Sacks. Though I suppose you'd say the same of any of us.