Once there was a man named Mr. Partridge who never could quite get the hang of life. Everyone around him seemed to be having a more-or-less good time. But Mr. Partridge: Well...

His job didn't excite him. He worked in the quality control department of a factory that manufactured ground turmeric. He supervised squads of local college students who were paid the minimum wage to test random jars and make certain the spice tasted exactly right. Sometimes it was a bit challenging, but the novelty had worn off long ago.

His personal life was no more interesting. He wasn't married and he only dated occasionally. The few women he did see led lives almost as drab as his own, and so conversation easily became strained. By the time desert was served, both parties were usually twiddling their forks and staring at the other patrons. It really wasn't worth the effort.

He had no hobbies, and no real friends. As the years went by, it became more and more clear to him that he was only going through the motions, filling up time.

One evening, as he reclined in the bathtub, reading a book filled with biographies of famous mathematicians, he was suddenly struck by a perfectly obvious way to solve his problem. The cause of life's drabness, he realized, was its opened ended nature. It's very difficult to motivate one's self when one knows that a large, unspecified number of days awaits one in the future. How different things would be if that number was finite. How much more valuable life would seem if one knew the exact day of one's death.

And so, right there, in the bathtub, Mr. Partridge made a fateful resolution. He picked a day exactly ten years in the future. "Henceforth," he proclaimed, "I will live each moment as if I will die on that day, ten years from now! Till then, every second will be precious and every sunset will be mourned."

And so it was.

Mr. Partridge began anew. Suddenly, everything was different. The air tasted fresher, because he imagined he had only a limited time to breathe. Music sounded more beautiful. Even the turmeric tasted spicier. His eyes were opened and his soul was freed.

He refused to waste an instant. With every glance of his head he noticed new colors. With every touch he felt new textures. The world was alive and vivid and it was his for the taking.

He took up dangerous sports. Skiing and hang gliding and parachute jumping. He stretched his body to the limit and he treasured every new sensation and every ache.

Nine years left.

He dated new and exciting women. He spared no expense to take them to the best restaurants and he regaled them with witty conversation and exciting stories. Then, he'd drive them home and spend the night with them, only to drop them cold the next morning, refusing even to take their heartbroken phone calls.

Eight years.

He learned to play the lute.

Seven.

He quit his job, and went into business for himself, in direct competition with his old company. He amazed his employees and his creditors alike with his gusto and vigor. Soon, he cornered the market, and became known worldwide as the Turmeric King.

Six.

Life was a whirlwind, an endless party and a continuous high.

Five.

Always The Day remained in the forefront of his mind. Always the deadline. At first he remembered that it was a fiction, an artificial construct designed only to motivate. But, over time, that was forgotten, and, eventually, he became convinced that it was true, that he really would die at the appointed time.

He made no secret of this, and, after a while, everyone around him accepted it as well. Mr. Partridge was with them for a limited period only. His associates resolved to enjoy his vigorous company while they could, and not to struggle against the inevitable.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The Day approached fast. He sold his business and donated the proceeds to charity. The auditorium was full during the memorial service, and not an eye was dry during his farewell speech. "Friends, do not mourn," he told them. "With acceptance comes contentment."

He bought a plane ticket to Central Asia, taking only his lute and his mountain climbing gear.

The End. The last day. He climbed Mount Kilaykonkarnay, in the Republic of Hooserwhassastahn. Up, up, all the way to the peak, where the air was thin and the breeze was cold.

There he waited, to watch his final sunset. He strummed a quiet tune upon his lute, sad, but serene.

The night grew black and he laid down, closing his eyes for a final time. Soon his conciousness slipped, and he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

He woke the next morning confused, startled by the sun. He looked dumbfounded at his watch, and stood stunned, for almost an hour. The air choked in his throat, and his heart beat fast. Suddenly he screamed at the top of his lungs. It echoed for miles round the desolate peaks. He smashed his right foot down onto the lute, shattering it to pieces. Then he sunk to his knees and cried.

Somehow he made his way down the mountain, and somehow he managed to fly back home. He got a job at his old company and he rented an apartment in his old neighborhood.

He spoke to no one and no one spoke to him.

He never went out.

He died in thirty-five years