After all the fuss has died down, and the sound and the fury has subsided, remember this.
In times to come you will be remembered by deeds set in stone, in paper, in thin chalk marks. A never-ending whizz of electrons may carry you to immortality, in the chorus of the future. They may write your name on the cenotaph, or erect a statue. Your name may be a prize long after your connection to it is no more than a pub quiz trivia question. You may be great, and lauded unto the seventh generation of your people.
But your name may only pass as a teen-aged graffiti mark on a bench slowly rotting back to nature and frowned over by those writing next to it. An epigraph in a book, fusty and old, on the high shelves. A name on a family tree, and a photograph, a puzzle to the future. But still, you echo down the generations, a phrase here, an old anecdote there, the smallest breath of immortality in defiance of time and fate.
None of us are wholly forgotten, so long as any of us remain.