My cat nips at my heels, cries from the balcony, circles silently or stares at me from a facing perch, like an uneasy conscience. Most people don’t want to die, yet they believe that death will carry them straight to Heaven. But why would a trip to paradise commence with deportation? Is Heaven some sort of cosmic 19th century Australia–or Soviet Union? Humanity is supposed to be the mirror of God, but like fallen snow, a mirror so fragmented that it reflects no image back, just an indistinct white light.