I should have looked where I was going. I just ran out the door, out of a room of bright light and cluttered desktops, into the desolate decay of a dark dirty alley. I should have never opened that door.

From the chaotic world of sanctified order, where that order is merely perceived, mercifully implied; a seemingly sensical satire of systematic similitude; I opened the door and stepped into night.

Suddenly, all around me, all about me, all that I could see were the tentacled trails of his free flowing cloak. It seemed to reach out, and into my very soul, yet when I turned to tear it away from my obscured view, it was insubstantial, ellusive and intangible as smoke.

As I exited the entrance, from which I came into contact with that strange dark cloud, I deposited myself to the concrete constructs of that cold dark street.

And turned to see the end.

Casually poised against the wall adjacent to the door for which I had just stepped through, was Death in all his glory, smoking a cigarette.

I am sure it was death, for he certainly looked the part, he was all decked out in his fanciest finery. his opaque shroud flapped noiselessly about him. his half-hidden face was no more than a skull.

And as I leaned closer to take a last look, the skull seemed to crack and reshape and reform, fading into the void of the folds of his cloak, like a moon swallowed up by a midnight storm.

It was death, I’m quite sure, for who else could it be? It was death, that I know, and he came there for me.

He had no sickle, no spectral wings, but I’m sure he was death and all that death brings.

“Hey, buddy,” I taunted with false bravado.

“Hey, dude,” I cojoled, solamente comprar mavado.

He silently stood there, taking his time, unaware of my presence; he just couldn’t care less.

slowly sucking the smoke through his lip-less jaws, Death smoked his cigarette, taking a pause.

I saw no sense in running.

He already had me.

Please, understand as I relate this to you, that escape was quite futile, at least in my view.

He just leaned on the wall enjoying his smoke, while I inquired, ”Is this some kind of sick joke?”

But he just ignored me like I was not even there, and that enraged me, but Death did not care.

“Well, come on and take me, while I’m still standing here!”

The look on his skull-face was distant and queer.

I think he had noticed , though, it was hard to tell.

Perhaps he was ready to take me to hell.

And that’s when it hit me, his smoke was half gone, burning low in his fingers, like the first light of dawn.

I ran and I ran just as fast as I could feeling slightly offended, yet still feeling good.

Death just continued, smoking butt in his hand.

For my life I cannot remember the brand.