Perfect summer’s evening.
I’m in my cotton dress. You’re suited.
We laugh.
There’s breeze. There’s silence.
I walk the wall, flip-flops in hand.
You, dear gentleman, put out your cigarette in abject worry.
I stop. I look at you.
Help.
You proffer your hand, promise with a nod.
Mister Death, I remember your eyes most.
Sewn Together 
woah, Death smokes too? or did I miss the meaning of this post too like I always do on your blog?
😀 why shouldn’t Death smoke?adds to his character. however stupid the act of it.you always get my posts. it’s just that i like waylaying everyone with detail and messing with everyone’s mind =D
Fuck. (You mess with my mind, alright.)Also, I can’t help thinking of Death as resembling Brad Pitt. Sue me.
Death actually looks like John Cleese. And speaks like him too. That’s why it’s so hard to disagree with it.
Whoa.The exact reaction i coughed up. A smile stopped in its tracks.Really, really nice(speaking, not just about this post).