I'd like to believe in an afterlife. I'd like to, but I can't. It's like, where does a story go when they've burnt the book? Right. Memory. But it's a comfort to imagine our departed loved ones looking down at us at Costco and wondering what we think we're going to do with six LED flashlights. Nice to visualize Bukowski peeing over the railing. And I'd like to think that somewhere up there Pete Seeger, Yusef Lateef, and Phil Everly have quickly figured out they don't know any of the same songs and have decided to see what's on TV.