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.
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