On the wall of the gallery was a picture with the title Dance of Death depicting a skeleton wearing a crown made of small childlike bones holding long handled scythe with a very sharp looking .
The skeleton eyes seemed to stare into your very soul and a poem entered my mind like an earworm repeating again and again.
(All are equal in the face of death, one fateful day I will puck you out of your pretty little coffin where you thought was your final place of rest ,
I raise my huge skeletal hand and grip tightly your skull all with a malicious glee.
Then I will decide whether you end up in front of the pearly gates or savour the taste of eternal hell)
Soon I was engrossed in pleasures or vocations which are unceremoniously interrupted by death.
I was awakened away from my nightmarish daydream by a nudge from my friend, but that image stayed with me until I was on my deathbed.
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