Not only are we dust in the wind, we’re dirt on the floor. We break down and join something else: whether we’re cremated or inhumed, eventually we all join the same thing. Something bigger than us. This is where we go, and where we came from.

Now tell me, what do you think heaven is, Ray?’‘I don’t know. The closest I can think of is a feeling. Or an energy. It’s probably love. You just join love. They say you see your grandparents again or whatever, but it won’t be like that. You don’t see, but you feel them. You join their love and everyone else’s love who ever lived.

‘Now tell me, what do you think heaven is, Ray?’‘I don’t know. The closest I can think of is a feeling. Or an energy. It’s probably love. You just join love. They say you see your grandparents again or whatever, but it won’t be like that. You don’t see, but you feel them. You join their love and everyone else’s love who ever lived.’

Nobody really belongs in purgatory. It’s not a destination point, it’s a waiting room.

IP addresses don’t matter in the afterlife.

Perhaps that’s all that purgatory is—prolonged death throes.