The dead who’ve died in time for tea at Valhalla, in the nine-world tree, raise their spirits in a toast to me who resurrected bright conversations (designed to wreck an age’s reservations) while on Earth, with divine enunciations of the forgotten gods of land, sky and sea. And now I watch with an unfaithful glee all that my after-living eye can see; the cookies’ evolution into crumbs, the secretive sips of exotic rums snuck in in flasks by the bardo bums. —The scene is set up like a final scene: a luncheon’s attempt at theodicy— Still my plan to invade Elysium is greeted with wary delirium by the masters and their masters of sorcery; for purely logistical reasons, you see. “We want to! we want to! it’s just that…well, we’re still waging wars on Heaven and Hell.” So I ensorcell my lips with my favorite spell, that potent mead wise Wotan acquired, and politely inform the gods they’re fired.
So good Nathan! The concept and the execution.