The night is approaching and I feel with it comes my demise. But it won't be loud, it won't be sudden, and it won't be bright. It won't be the implosion of a star, nor will it be the crushing sounds of metal of an accident. And it won't be fought with tears and shuddering breaths, or grasping hands. No, this end that comes for me will be slow and quiet, like the uncurling of a flower.