http://pulpfactor.com/art/1797/death-and-surrealism/

The girl walked into death like walking into a coffee shop; right into that thick inviting aroma that rocks one to sleep whether you choose to drink it in or not. There was only one door, easier than she’d expected, no riddles, no guards. She still had on the same clothes she’d left in. It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t light either, like sun sneaking in through cuts in cool stone. She spread her arms and closed her eyes and ran fingertips along the walls’ unevenness like Braille, trying hard to decipher a dream. Her life had been a single oval room, no corners to hide from the burning pass of time. She’d prayed for this all along, this lengthening hallway of the afterlife, this final sigh of relief.

Minutes passed – Heaven’s hour – and the hallway seemed to sway and stretch, reaching away from her as she…