Ends (Conclusiones)

     There was a summer that Death got bored of his realm of darkness and decided to set up shop in the dazzling morning. The sun filtered down through the skyscrapers and stopped just three paving stones away from his helpless shadow.
     Death focused his grey eyes on the highest floor of an imposing building. There, next to a fragile-looking railing, a man was waving his arms, completely naked. From the busy square below no one was looked up. Everyone was watching their own step and waiting for the green traffic lights. Death understood that the naked man was about to launch himself into the void, but the former did not have the energy to receive him and simply blinked instead. When he looked up again, the man was no longer on the precarious railings, but after a while he reappeared smartly dressed and with a smile that no one below was eagle-eyed enough to distinguish. Except for Death.
     A young couple, perhaps too absorbed in their love, stepped out into the road without seeing the red light. An enormous lorry came and ploughed into them; or rather, came, because once again Death blinked and the lorry driver braked sharply before showering the guilty party with insults. The couple did not even realise the danger that they had avoided, and continued, holding each other, on their way.
     Death decided to move. The impressive boulevard, with its line of skyscrapers and knots of cars, appeared to him to be a pretentious sketch of a future cemetery. For him it was certain: all of this disparate hyperbole would end one day, centimetre by centimetre, kilometre by kilometre, cross by cross, into a black future of no return, in its final hour.
     He soon realised that the bright day bored him even more than night had done. For this reason he returned hastily to his gloomy habitat where only the moon could defy him. And he started the same routine as he had always done.
     From below, souls floated and flowed upwards, consumed breaths of life, tracks of spirits, from the three or four wars that raged in the world. Death gathered them with his usual expertise and  dispersed them in his area of ether, sometimes as effluvia and other time as miasmas. It was truly draining work.
    Thank God there is no God, muttered Death. If there were a God and he came to dispute my fate, I would have not choice but to die.