When we are alive, life is everything to us. For those who are dead, all they know is death.
In this; we know that people who speak endlessly of death have already left this realm. They are marking time, is all. They are waiting for a bus that will never come, but it doesn't matter, because they don't want to get on it because they don't want to go anywhere anyway.
Even a killer knows when there is a time for life. Hollow madmen whine and circle like vultures over the weak, their thin, reedy voices bragging of people hurt and souls stolen.
True killers, true masters of death, sit idly eating chocolate and wait for the rabble to pick each other off before making one, perhaps two clean strikes and solving the gordian knot.
The sharpest sword is the one never drawn in anger.