The finality of death fascinates me. The biological engine that makes up who we are is snuffed out in an instant, and the sentient life form that once was is no more. Even a simple thought, such as “I like the color blue,” no longer matters, because the “I” in the subject no longer exists, and it all occurs without pomp, without circumstance. 
In nature, the organism merely desiccates, the once living, thinking, postulating, dreaming, philosophizing brain, that opinionated and fact laden organ, is no longer relevant or useful except as sustenance for other creatures, predicated on a successful death for which they shall, too, follow along in their meeting.
It saddens me. Hugs, giggles, rage, tears, self-examination, wonder, and worry, a universe inside a universe… rotting meat. It seems so ingnominious in its occurrence. You would, or might, think that we, as a species, would put our collective power, our amazing intellect, into preserving this precious commodity of life, to save it from the unceasing cruelty of death, but instead we help death along, giving aid to a force of nature that does not care for it, nor does it offer special consideration for those who do: war, famine, greed, pestilence, we augment these evils, we give comfort to the destroyer, possibly because we see ourselves in it as children of chaos and destruction.
I consider this to be a great unholy alliance. There is no I in team, nor is there one in death. When will we learn this? I do not know. For me, death is forever the enemy, because once I am dead, it holds me forever, and I have not the power nor presence to fight it, for there is no more I.