Sometimes I lie in bed and fantasize about Death. I know Death must be a woman, her loving caress is much too gentle and controlled to be the heavy hand of a man. If I close my eyes and lay still enough, I can see Death. I wonder when she will come for me, and why it has not been sooner. Like all beautiful things, Death is cruel. Death plays with patience and toys with sorrow. Once I stole my mother's garden shears, and I considered forcing Death's hand. I should have known Death would not be a compassionate lover, but rather a heartbreaker.

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