Six minutes...

Was that really all he had left? Three hundred sixty seconds? Well, less than that, now.

He looked into the eyes of his family, gathered around him atop the hill.

What was a man supposed to do in a situation like this? Pray? Meditate? Impart wisdom? Plan some last words? They'd have to be really special... You only got one chance at Last Words.

He thought for a moment. Two hundred seconds, now.

He nodded imperceptibly, straightened his back, and reached for a pair of scissors. With a confident, even snip, he pulled away a handful of hair and held it to the wind.

"Here and now," he pronounced, "I cast myself, my life, to the winds of the world."

He released the hair, and it scattered and separated, some gusting into the sky, some fluttering to the ground, and some coming to rest on the eyes of his children.

"You're so melodramatic, Dad," said his son.

"Sorry," he said. Then he died.