Yeah, I know time is running out. But some nights—like tonight—I just like to get drunk and veg out on Beatle shit on YouTube.

It's funny how the perspective changes.

Those people who were OK with just sending you a Christmas card every year—and maybe not always that—suddenly need to do and be more once they find out you're dying.

I mean, if we listen to the philosophers, we're all dying, right? So, what's different now?

What the fuck was that all about?

I go to my annual eye appointment. Meet my new doctor. A rather routine examination takes place. It's only been a year. At the end, she asks me if any new health developments have occurred in the past year. I tell her of my cancer diagnosis. She asks of my prognosis. I tell her. She replies, "And you're here getting your eyes examed?" I sorta laugh and say, "I guess, I want see my best in my final days." She sorta laughs. Then apologizes. I say it's OK. I don't mind gallows humor. Then I go the check out and I find next appointment is "beyond my prognosis."

I guess I ain't coming back?

Sometimes I wonder, if I only have a finite number of days, of strength and energy, should I spend that time making poems, songs and art like only I can do or sweep stairs, rake leaves and till garden rows like anyone could do?

It's good those days when you're laughing and talking with friends, where if you didn't speak about having cancer you wouldn't feel like you do.

Another fucking "blood-in-my-spit" morning. I wonder if I'll run into someone I haven't seen in years and have to share "my news" like I did yesterday?