The old, rusty gates are wide open. They always are. Welcoming visitors like a theme park entrance. The wind is howling and throwing up dust on the foot treaded paths. Dry branches of sickly looking trees are grotesquely twisted in a daunting manner. Grey stone seems to be imitating a thick, heavy quilt that keeps the dead separated from the world of the living. The crosses mock me as I make my way down the main cemetery path.
Coming here calms me down. Who would have thought that after centuries of living and evading death I would find solace in the last resting place of the dead. When one seeks escape from the cold scythe of death he does not venture into her very lair challenging her, tempting fate.
However nothing brings me more peace than coming to the cemetery and making sure that they are still sleeping soundly here. All my dear ones, my friends, my victims. I like to make sure they are peacefully awaiting me, like birds of prey calmly bidding their time.