Ah, the sweet taste of Lethe. Curled up in the fetal position with nowhere to go, and I’d just rock back and forth in my chair, waitin’ for some lullaby to whisk me into limbo, except there was no music, save the sound of the humming air conditioner outside, and limbo was where I already was until the church got rid of it. What in the world are they going to do with the dead babies now? I closed my eyes until I began choking on air, having forgotten that I was supposed to keep breathing through it all. So, I told myself, I’ve let the world pass me on by with pride, and when I tried to catch back up humbly, there was no crossing of bridges burnt, even if the water’d dried. I’d just have to swim across Acheron alone and hope that Charon might reach out his long paddle or suffocate within the hate that slapped, one wave against another, into the sands of Styx. These are the hours preciously dying, and the sign that once read “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate” has been painted over in red ink (or, maybe, blood) to read, “Sperare disponibile per il prezzo basso di un’anima a persona.” Indulge, my friend. May the constant hum of that silly, old air conditioner relax every aching muscle, and if the fetal position doesn’t work, try sleeping on your back. It’s the only way you’ll ever face Heaven.