There was a man in a black suit, and white eyes; who drove a hearse from decades past. Everything he touched would turn into embers, except those things which were in nature as black as he. His name was Death, and he walked on through the night with a purpose in his step. He grasped his cane and looked towards the stars - those white speckles in the sky, are but the shimmers of souls lost to the heavens. Some shine brighter than others, and some are what the cognoscenti have dubbed 'black holes.' Those were the ones that were, in nature, as black as Death.

Every time death found a black hole, he had met his replacement. He walked in the shadows - light was not the place for him. And at once, he looked me in the eye - and then pressed his hand against my face. I did not burn, as those others had in his wake.

"You are, the blackest of the night."

Death too, had become naught but a pile of ash.

I am become Death, the destroyer of the worlds.







...


Freedom is a wonderful thing for the mind.