I imagine the lingering thought of death as a jet black jar of ink purchased at a garage sale, speckled with possible outcomes.
Some can only worry about the consequences of spilling their liquid death, so they grasp for any excuse to avoid its use.
Others use this gift to write one thousand love letters, or line a photo with golden phrases of calligraphy. They treasure their emblem.
Those who would rather not ponder about the life it could give, concern about the death it could burden if it were to expire.
Dry. Empty. Who would ever want to risk feeling that way?
So you just hold on. And you will eventually die, scared of dying.