It was a good night overall -- my hips and back did not hurt, I was warm enough, I had some good dreams -- in one in particular I remember laughing and laughing with my friends and child -- and then there was this odd thing. I don't have the perception of it having been a dream, but I don't remember anything else about it so I really don't know. All I came away with was a sort of inkling, almost like a message with no messenger. And it woke me up. It was: I am going to die in May. And then on later reflection (as I got up to go to the bathroom) I thought: May 22nd.

I didn't feel any sense of foreboding or grief about this. It doesn't feel like a real thing either -- it wasn't like a Knowing. But it got me thinking: what would I do if I were to die in six months?

I would write, a lot. I would write about my memories. I would write everything that I know and think, without compulsion to look smart or marketable. I would write letters to people to let them know how much I appreciate them, the sort of thing that seems weird and socially inappropriate when you're alive. I would draw a story for my children.

So then the question is: if it is so important, why am I not doing that already?