Death Waits

Death waits.

Death is bored.

Death is tapping his bony fingers on the table (obsidian inlay probably).

Death sighs.

Death unlocks his phone, and likes God's selfie (where is She, the Golden Gate?).

Death thinks, What am I here for. My work is automated. In every system, degradation, death and decay are embedded, subtly and efficiently, in the clickbaits, in the duckfaces in the gangbangs. The personal touch, the craft, they're gone. My father would be ashamed to see how things have turned out, if he were alive today.

Death gets a notification on his Apple Watch, Junko Takahashi.

Death says aloud, Finally, then sits up straight, closes his eyes, opens his mind, his black robe becomes everywhere endless as his atoms turn inside out through the folds of space time to meet Junko on the way.