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I walk on air. I bounce off white clouds like high density foam. My feet land on an earth like a trampoline, my body bounds back into the sky. Gleaming in heaven's reach the face of Charles Bukowski smiles at me. This is the afterlife, he whispers...freedom, freedom, freedom. eternally. But the earth's landing is hard; my ankles sprain and swell like giant baseballs. Maybe as Frost wrote, I have miles to go before I sleep.The heaven's ride just a taste of what may come.