Death Explains Himself

To begin with, a few mistaken impressions: I have never been warmed over. I take no holidays. I be not proud. I have never visited Venice.

Oh yes. And this one: That just before you get to me, you are enveloped in a warm, embracing light. Sorry. Before you get to me, nothing happens at all. There’s no signal, no sweet transitional moment in which you are shepherded from the world of the living. You’re alive. Then you’re dead. As your bounty hunters put it: dead or alive. Think of me like a score in a baseball game. There are no ties. But no rain-outs, either.