I always imagined Death's final kiss would be cold. It wasn't. Four years later, I can still remember the exact shade of his skin: a blue so pale it looked like moonlight. I dream of his touch. Mostly, I paint the man under the heavy cowl, including those perfect lips which ruined mine for anyone else. I'm obsessed with him. The doctors say he's nothing more than a hallucination caused by a mixture of head trauma and emergency pain medications. I...