The hill that I will die on is a perfectly acceptable hill. It is a pleasant and peaceful grassy knoll1 with a perfect balance of sloping sides (for rolling down) and a nice flat top (for sitting idly). Children played here once, probably, but only the cool ones who knew how to find it. There is a great big oak tree with lots of branches for climbing. (Actually, it's kind of crazy, because there are no trees in sight except for this gorgeous tall guy, so it really makes a landmark out of the hill that I will die on! You can't miss it!) There's treasure buried under the tree, too. Gold doubloons!2
I can sit in the shade under the tree and read a nice book without interruption. I can lean up against the tree trunk, admiring the abundant green landscape in front and behind and all around me, and contemplate the evidence against free will. The wind will carefully rustle the leaves in the tree — the leaves are always a perfect combination of gold, auburn, red, and green. Just how high does wind go? Like, at a certain height, does the wind stop being there, and if so, how high — does it go all the way to the edge of the atmosphere? (Is that a thing?3) These are the types of questions I can ponder. There are those little fuzzy floaties in the air, but I don't have to worry about seasonal allergies if this is the hill I am going to die on.
Also, I will listen to Coldplay as much as I would like.