They say that war is death’s best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: ‘Get it done, get it done.’ So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.

It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just a few. Forget the scythe, Goddamn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

There were heavy beams – planks of sun – falling randomly, wonderfully, onto the road. Clouds arched their backs to lok behind as they started again to move on. ‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ he said, and his voice was in many pieces. A great day to die. A great day to die, like this.

Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.

I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.

For two days I went about my business. I travelled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity.

I could introduce myself properly, but it’s not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.

Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

***HERE IS A SMALL FACT*** You are going to die.

The bombs were coming-and so was I.

His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do – the best ones. The ones who rise up and say I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come. Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.

Death waits for no man – and if he does, he doesn’t usually wait for very long.

A SMALL PIECE OF TRUTHI do not carry a sickle or scythe.I only wear a hooded black robe when it’s cold.And I don’t have those skull-like facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I’ll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.

She was still clutching the book. She was holding desperately on to the words who had saved her life.

How do you tell if something’s alive? You check for breathing.

It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it has pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins. Trees wore blankets of ice. As you may expect, someone has died.

… And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race – that rarely do I even simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant…I AM HAUNTED BY HUMANS.

Grimly, she realized that clocks don’t make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.

Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?

If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.

Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.

A small but noteworthy note. I’ve seen so many young men over the years who think they’re running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.

Personally, I like a chocolate-covered sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I see – the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on. It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax.

I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come. Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out.

A human doesn’t have a heart like mine. The human heart is a line, whereas my own is a circle, and I have the endless ability to be in the right place at the right time. The consequence of this is that I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both. Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the way-I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.)