Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.

The enemy fought with savage fury, and met death with all its horrors, without shrinking or complaining: not one asked to be spared, but fought as long as they could stand or sit.

I know I'm drinking myself to a slow death, but then I'm in no hurry.

For days after death hair and fingernails continue to grow, but phone calls taper off.

It is a horrible fact that we can read in the daily paper, without interrupting our breakfast, numerical reckonings of death and destruction that ought to break our hearts or scare us out of our wits.