Ten thousand days.
That’s twenty seven point three nine seven two six zero years recurring, or about twenty seven years and four months (approximately).
It’s how long I have left to live.
If I’m lucky.
That takes me to the grand old age of eighty.
That’s not too much to ask, is it?
Really it’s a totally arbitrary figure. I might live till I’m a hundred. Then again, I might be dead next week. Who knows?
I could be hit by a bus or a car. I could fall off a ladder. I could trip over a misplaced man-hole cover and hurtle headlong down the exposed hole. I could be struck by lightning. I could be fried in an industrial accident while unintentionally passing by the factory, having got lost in some city somewhere, and taking a wrong turning.
This would be a particularly ironic death, as I have managed to avoid working in factories these last thirty years.
Once upon a time it would have been considered my destiny to end up working in a factory, thus lessening the odds of me dying in this particular way.
Shall I go on?
Genghis Khan died of a nosebleed.
Aristotle died when a passing eagle mistook his bald head for a rock, and dropped a turtle on it to break its shell.
Those last two facts are as approximate as everything else in this text as I can’t say for certain whether either of them are actually true.
It only goes to show how bizarre are the possibilities of death.
Myself, I am most likely to die of the cumulative effects of alcohol and tobacco, these being my particular weaknesses.
I would like to invent a romantic death for myself, but I can’t.
Let’s just say I will die, at some point, and in some way.
I only hope it will be relatively painless.