Death was no longer an old man she could beg for mercy or negotiate with about postponement.
After death had come so close, she had lost all her notions about that unmerciful reaper who had followed her from childhood.
She no longer saw a thin, cape clad figure, a death's head in the dark beneath the hood, an imperious bony hand stretched out, a scythe that lay ready to harvest life's crop.
Now death was dissolved, formless.
Flowed quietly as a dark river away from her naked anguish.















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