In my Note for On a Pale Horse, I concluded that we should live our lives in such a manner that we would not at the end be ashamed. Accepting this, should we not also live our lives as efficiently as we can? Life is the greatest gift we know; what point is there in wasting any part of it? If we should not measure out our lives with coffee spoons, as in T. S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock—when I was in the Army, we spoke of "Private Prufrock"—we should also not similarly tune out in the lacunae of waiting rooms. This is our life; they are not making any more of it. And with this thought, written in a waiting room, I conclude.