Til Death Do Us



In the drawer is a box. In the box, there perfumed by the musky scent of myrrh, nestled in swath of black satin, lay bits of scrolled parchment upon which she writ her myriad ways to die. Only the preferred ones, nothing too dreadful. Though she supposed it doesn't matter really what form Death chooses but why not imagine a glorious ending, just in case it does. Some consider her morbidly reckless to make friends with Death. However to her it seems judicious that we conciliate now and make ready to retire into its arms when it deems our day has come. After all does Death not be our most loyal companion, abiding at our side from the moment of our very first breath unto our very last.


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