Even the afterlife has a DMV, apparently.

Even eternity, it turns out, runs on paperwork and numbered tickets, and the fluorescent lights of the afterlife hum no differently than those of any DMV at 4 p.m. on a Friday. The babies wait in their cubicles like unassigned futures, patient and blank, while the rejected aspirations of Architect and Beloved curl at the bottom of a wire wastebasket. There is something both merciful and crushing in the clerk's neutral expression, as if compassion itself has been processed out of the system.

Jul 5, 2026

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