Archive > Vol. X no. Z
After death, the pilgrim beside me spoke boldly into his headset: “not a breath of wind on the Styx, the ferry is headed straight for us, Cerberus keeps lunging and slobbering, hackles raised, in the shadow harbor.” I was grateful. All I saw was darkness. Whom was he calling? A child, a lover? “Now dawn is breaking over Tartarus. We can just make out that huge city, plazas, monuments, cathedrals, tombs — even in death there must be tombs — the slums that cling to the marl cliff — and now we’re boarding, the plank trembles at the tramp of naked marching feet.” I was grateful. All I knew was darkness.