Edgar Allan Poe had a good death.  He was found lying in a gutter in Baltimore, wearing someone else’s clothes, too delirious to explain how he’d gotten there in that condition.  He died in a hospital four days later, never recovering sufficiently to explain the course of his latter days.  He kept crying out for “Reynolds”, a person whose identity has never been established.

If you’ve got to go, that’s the way to do it.