Icicle of Damocles
I've received no foreshadowing about how I'll die. Odds are that I'll perish in my sixties or seventies from a slow, debilitating disease. A dramatic death sounds more attractive. I pray that Iranian nukes won't be involved, but I wouldn't complain if twenty-five years from now I fell off the ledge of the Grand Canyon or was eaten by a pack of coyotes. Then again, a falling icicle might do me in tomorrow.