This accompanied a poem I wrote a long time ago about the Angel of Death visiting a guy who takes the news rather well, and actually invites Death in for dinner, coffee and conversation. Death enjoys the man's company so much that he grants him a reprieve.
Like it that the guy gave Death the nice chair, and has put aside his own soup to better listen to his guest. Something about the contrast in footwear--the man's comfortable slippers vs. Death's old, broken-down, can't-be-comfortable shoes--highlights the way that Death seems like a lonely and weary traveler who must be relieved to find a cordial and comfortable place to rest, be nourished, and--best of all, from the looks of it--be listened to.
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