Heading out the door for a walk, the wife invited me along. I told her I had too much to do, that the clock was running, the format sudden death, the time-control unknown.
"But you're retired."
I reminded her that philosophy is my vocation. One can be retired from the largely meaningless job of teaching the unteachable, but one can never be retired from one's vocation in the proper sense of that term.
I hope to have my boots on when the flag falls.
In what state will death find you when the Reaper's scythe cuts you down? Will it matter? Is that a question that needs to be investigated?
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