Somewhere in the afterlife was a place for lost souls. For every angel statue draped over a tomb, for every tear stained photo of someone not worth the tears while they were still alive. There was a place like that.

You had slipped away from your life wordlessly at age seventeen, such high hopes to be a Rockstar shot down quickly after your weed had been laced.

Months had been spent wandering how the universe decided to make your afterlife. Everything was static and mute, as if your death had been permanently etched into an old snapshot of the early 2000s. The poor early 2000s, the small town early 2000s. You know what I'm talking about.

One day, during your wanderings, you saw a man sitting on a park bench. It was dusk, and the world seemed so still at that moment. The humid air, the bird call off in the distance you only heard during summer. The man had blonde hair to his shoulders and wore a tattered sweater. He had one leg crossed over the other and a ciggarette between his fingers, staring off at a faded poster of Nirvana on the lamppost. You knew it was him. It had to be him. He exhaled a puff of smoke at the sky and ran a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath.