I have seen death. I’ve seen it for what it really is. Some may claim that it waits in one place for every person. For one person, death may live in his lungs and feed on smoke. For another, death may wait on the bumper of a car, or maybe the street where the fateful collision occurs. For yet another, it may simply grow inexorably closer with each passing second, coming closer and closer until, with no particular cause, it claims him when the seconds are spent. Indeed, death comes for many at those times, but death doesn’t live there.
Death lives in the taint and tarnish of the world. It lives in every diseased thought, every twisted passion, every spiteful word, every grievous deed. It lives in those things, and in every place it inhabits the world, it festers, it grows. It spreads and corrupts like an infection, until, when the smoke, or the car, or the clock, come for you, it will be there to claim you.