Death rang when you were trying to remember how to laugh sincerely. She danced around, hips circling, telling you "send money, baby." Like you, she's grown bored of the charade, of the rotting washbucket of recycled souls denying their divinity and reliving repetitions. She's teaching moondance and raising funds for an extended temple hermitage where she longs to spend her nights singing drunken hymns to the old gods, renaming the stars and setting satellites on fire. I don't know why she longs for celestial poetry and ceremonial destruction. After all, the world has plenty of prayer and fire. But if you return Death's calls, please tell her a joke or send worthless nudes - do not send an offering. I hope she doesn't disappear for too long. I can't bear to think of a world without the sweet relief of our Darling Mother Death. We are near crisis with the news of her impending self-imposed exile. We are burdened by abundant births of endless cycles of karmic shame sludge and will surely drown in sickened skin sacks if Death raises enough money for her selfish exodus. How quickly the world will weep and wonder why their Gods have forsaken them. We must convince her to stay and have mercy upon us, lest she follow through and doom us to carrying the cross of our own life and finding our own way home.
