Recently I read some fiction in which a terribly abused character regarded death as a dark, quiet room. She doesn't die during the story, and in fact her life turns around in a huge way shortly after that. The imagery of death as she viewed it was what stayed with me. In a bright, loud world where life is perpetually coming at you (and constantly subjecting you to some form of abuse) death as a dark, quiet room seems quite appealing. Being done with all these exhausting people seems very peaceful. All the pain stops. You're finally alone (and I do understand that longing more than I realized I would.) As a writer I've thought of death in a zillion ways, probably, but I keep coming back to crossing a finish line. The end of a life is that kind of end -- we're finished with this whole beautiful, disastrous mess of existence. I don't want to debate what happens after death, because we'll never know until after we die, assuming consciousness survives. Al...