In life, this usually is not the case. Youth, even middle age, can be a time of great buoyancy, full of rich moments. But the last, old age, is a time of many aches and sorrows. Then, our lights go out. The lights go out.
Lights illumine a podium, an exaggerated monolith, in fearful green.
The books are opened, our stories are read. You await, shivering with torment. An icy blue light haunts over the room, cooling everything. Warm amber lights, up. You slowly open your eyes, and you are where you should be, and no one is judging your crimes, your little crimes against man.