Tonight, I visited with a dying friend. He may have one day left; he may have a hundred and one days left. Guessing the exact time and place when cancer overtakes his body tends to be an inexact science, apparently.

It is, at times, odd to confront death the same one confronts a trip to the supermarket. Yet, a matter-of-fact conversation regarding one's impending end can be helpful.

We talked bank accounts and retirement, deeds and mortgages, living wills and dying wishes as we sat on his couch.

Actually, we didn't talk at all. I talked. He listened.

He can't talk. He has a breathing tube inserted into his neck that prevents him from talking. He communicated by writing on a $5 whiteboard.

Life is precious. Time is short.

I wish I knew the date of my death. As it stands, I don't. And as such, I waste time.

I waste time watching tv shows. I waste time on the intrawebs. I waste time worrying about nonsense.

My friend isn't wasting time. neither should i.