Sunsets and Breadcrumbs

Death sat comfortably on the park bench overlooking the bay. The sun was rapidly on its way down, and filling the sky with dazzling reds and oranges. The clouds in particular were a treat.

He inhaled deeply through the hole in his skull that a nose would have once rested on, theoretically.  The spring air was crisp but not cold. A lovely day, all around. He reached into his enormous tattered cloak and produced a loaf of stale bread. His bony fingers quickly crumbling it, he spread a lovely meal for the birds out at his feet.

People came and went past him, not noticing in the slightest the bulky ancient form of Death. Some made mention of the mysterious cold spot around the bench, but most people didn't even notice that.

It was tremendously peaceful.

Eventually the sun fell below the horizon, and Death ran out of bread. The birds fluttered away, and the stars came out.

He sighed contentedly, and stood. Brushing the crumbs off his cloak and grabbing his scythe off the bench beside him a thought occurred that tumbled about inside his skull as he lumbered away.

I don't get enough days off.