All around me was insanity, reason was now totaly absent. Bombs and guns, cries and alarming shouts. Babies crying in their dead mothers arms. Destruction was everywhere and I could do nothing about it.
In the dim horizon, I was able to distinguish a slim figure across the river of stixs. Her beauty overwelmed me with sadness and joy. I thought of myself as unHoly and unworthy of such absolute presence. She was the angel of Death, sent to collect every lost soul. Who'd have known that true beauty was actually death its self?