I am an old and war-torn man with a piece of knowledge to share:

You are going to die

One day, a black coated magician with a scythe as a wand will do to you what he has done to all other humans. In a loud and booming voice he will say, “Your time is up. Better run!” But you will be stuck in your place, like cement. He will then gather up your soul for judgment, leaving your leather and sagging body behind.

Well, that’s what the myths say. So, my saints in heaven, I was surprised when it was my time.

That night, the rain was full of ghosts when an apparition appeared. An apparition of a young boy. A bomber jacket wearing boy with a copy of some classical novel or other in his hands.

As he took my soul, he was gentle. He almost dropped it on the way down the stairs, resulting in some words I will do you the pleasure of refraining from using.

He looked at me, almost unfortunate to see me go. I swear I hear the words “I’m sorry” make there way across his lips as we shot into the stars.

I have been shot many times, but none like this.

I can now believe this:

Death is a kindred soul.