You've built your homeyou've fledged your birdsyou've beaten the windwith your bonesyou've finished alonewhat no one began

I don’t know about birds nor do I know the history of fire. But I believe that my solitude should have wings

Because no one has more thirst for earth, for blood, and for ferocious sexuality than the creatures who inhabit cold mirrors

But, who is Death? A figure that harrows and wastes wherever and however it pleases. This is also a possible description of the Countess Bathory. Never did anyone wish so hard not to grow old I mean, to die. That is why, perhaps, she acted and played the role of Death. Because, how can Death possibly die?