Oblivion is a place. No one knows where it is, which is strange because so many people go there. Many but not all. I have it on unproven but historically consistent authority that a good deal many others go somewhere.

Oblivion is a place. No one knows where it is, which is strange because so many people go there. Many but not all. I have it on unproven but historically consistent authority that a good deal many others go somewhere.
This is my house. I call it a lowly bungalow. Sometimes I call it a hovel. But it’s my hovel.
Oftentimes during life or at the end of life, there is a need to believe. The alternative — the void, the emptiness — become too much. Too many loved ones have died. The shotgun awaits. You resist it. You cry out for help.
It is too early to sleep and I can’t concentrate to read, so I think about the structure of my Amendment to the Laws of Death.