Does the Angel of Death ever ask for permission

I heard a voice in my sleep and saw a vision in my head. Does God place desire in a mans heart a desire for eternity. I desire destruction not of the exterior but of the interior. A self proclaimed self deconstructionalist. Each thought Is fire each rewrite and electrical storm of synapsal connection, massive. Each and every die and am reborn, it’s a romantic comedy, it always is. Is it an odd day to die? Is there ever a normal day to die ? Does the angel of death ever ask for permission? Are my emails too long , too strong ? Would this make more sense if there were music to it? Everything is better when accompanied by music, music and wine. This pencil is dull I need a sharp straight blade knife with a seamless steel edge a “ subtle knife” that finds the Seams between realities cuts them open and allows you to slip through, between. I think I’ll grab that knife now , my next words will be sharper.
He meets the love of his life eternal walks away turns around and she is gone. He turns away and is struck by lightening, hit by a bus, literally and his life is over. What was the point why did their paths cross, maybe he will carry that one last solitary conversation with him across the stars, the infinite space, drug through time and swept through the marshes of infinite toil.
The angel of death is waiting for you in the foyer, his hair is gold and his halo is dark, you’re not sure if it’s actually there for it’s a mere shadow darkened by dusk one negative particle of light taken away for each death he’s carried on his back. He does not want to do this forever how could he? All that matters are the colors and you know that color cannot exist with the light. In a pitch black room there is no sun, no shades of pink purples and reds no sunrise nor sunsets.
All that matters is that you write.
The angel of death speaks in your voice , wears your face , surely he has a halo for he is an angel and we all know angels have halos.
Have you come to take me ?
Are these words and letters merely a regurgitation of thoughts and prayers spoken repeatedly through all of time?

I sit at the base of that ancient tree, surely this is the most important paragraph for it deals with Jesus. The trees roots who are sunk to hell and his branches reach to heaven yearning for the light cast out and created by our father, and the son, son not sun, is the conduit through which the warmth is spread.
Death is standing in your kitchen, there’s a gentle breeze, slight through the trees as you sit next to the window writing in your small black book recording these shambling, ramblings on your observations and recollections of life.
Time for that subtle knife the words and the pencil have become dull
How long are you here?
As long as it takes.
What did you say?
I didn’t.