Waiting

I always think about what happens at the end of my life.

The last person that I meet.

The last friend I make.

The last word that I say.

I think about these things because I think it’s important to consider what I’m doing then still matters.

I hope by then I have something worth listening to. Something important enough, something valuable enough to pass on.

It’s funny, I always imagine myself an old man, but that is an end that is not promised. Death has found many in their youth. Who am I to say that I will not be counted among those taken early on?

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