It really is a minor miracle to be able to be awake–in an honest sense, rather than in the sense of responding in the intended way to agitation propaganda–while contemplating the sundry ways in which humankind might meet an awful and final end.
But you know, the Buddha said some 2,600 years ago that the future is uncertain, inherently, and Jim Morrison added back in the 1960’s that the end is always near.
Miracles happen every day, though. Breath itself is a miracle.
And I have decided that my dying words will be derivative, from Slaughterhouse Five: hello/goodbye, hello/goodbye.