Death is what waits behind every door; it is what hides in the dark, waiting behind my eyelids.  It is the pressure that pushes back in the night.  Not the unlikely outcome of some dangerous venture but rather the inevitable conclusion of all that I have done.  Built into every creation, the border of every achievement it is the answer to every question I have asked.  All things end, death has dominion over every story.

Beauty in the dark, scarlet lace sewn into every hem.  Moving on her throne she can survey it all.  What is it too rule but too destroy?  The end of ever story, yes, the final noise in every cry torn from every throat.  What is beauty but death: is death not beautiful?  No great work survives itself, we must find fulfillment in our endings.  The story of the heart can not be judged until the beating ceases.