We walk with our chests open, a knife on our right hands (left if we are left-handed), and a sign on our foreheads that say "Three tries for the most fatal puncture". On our backs, life sized orang utans will be hanging from our necks, a token for the winner. 

There will be only one winner for each of us and for every win, one of us dies.

Is death silent? Or noisy like when we sleep? Like when we shut ourselves from the real world, another dream buzzes, forcing our minds endless cycle of thoughts, conscious or not. 

Is death dark? As dark as no light? As dark as the hearts of evil that do not even bother to pretend? 

Where is death? 

Mine, yours and his.

Where is immortality?

Three. 

Tries.