The New York Times has published a piece called What Is Death. Everyone loved it because Grandmom could die in the nursing home in a terrified ball of folded flesh, and it was okay to not feel jack shit about anything. You were not there. We are animals who prize a Being There because it adds to our fundamental comprehension that the convergence of the universe is also a flying away of quantum reality. The small zone of what is real. Perhaps we weren’t there because the dying do not see us or work it out as to who is with them when they only know they are with themselves. What we prize is irrelevant. What we prize is a guessing game of poker, physics, and I am here to tell you, the house will win. What matters is not location because time and space are both the same in the accumulation of chance. Probability is not obvious design. Most of us know that we are going to die because entropy demands it. What is entropy. Entropy is the very circulation that holds the universe together. Until it doesn’t.  It is irreversibly like gravity because it is gravity, and in the war of push and pull, gravity has lost, we are still expanding and the molecules that make us up are being stripped away of the atoms that mold us into what we refer to as life and will continue to do so until the universe has no light, no name, and no recognition of itself.