Death was not who Ben had imagined. Death was the smile faced slits running up his wrists. Death was the trickle of crimson tears emanating from the eye sockets three inches wide on each arm. Looking at the wounds, Ben saw death in all its glory. Death sprung from the soil of his flesh. Death was no skeleton robed in black. Death could be no man or former man; Death was a parasite who inhabited man. Death could not be without a living organism. Death did not live on another dimension, death lives in all, and waited for its time to lay claim from within. Blissfully death worked in all different ways, strangling breath from within the body it found homage in, to control the mind of its house to cause its death brethren from another organism to be released, and in self-afflicted cease of life. Death did not bathe in the darkness he cleanses himself in red ether of human cells. Death is in everyone, everything, and has a time table to keep.