But I was not created for her death. A younger Death will take over her matter, so I withdraw, I fade away... Perhaps another Death can handle her, and she can continue to change and adapt to another Death, even embracing it until, when its time comes, it will be ashamed to sit before her, hesitant, perplexed, telling her about her and those she loved, talking and talking, and from afar, seeing its own death approaching it, approaching... approaching... approa... I am fading... fadi... But that won't prevent me, as a "gentle-death," from extending my hand and dancing a slow dance with the lady I've known for a long lifetime, while her granddaughter steps out of her car, a newborn in her arms, and with the other arm, pushes open the gate of the grand mansion.