The path to immortality leads through a tangled wood, the branches overhead interwoven into a light capturing net that allows no sight of the heavens above. The twisted limbs contort themselves into shapes not unlike writhing bodies, and faces, some mangled by anguish, others resting in impassive contemplation.
These things, and many others, the Poet related to me.
“Dante had me wrong,” said Virgil. “It is true, I’ve spent my after days as a psychopomp, but the forest I led him through was no Forest of Suicides. Or not only that. If you don’t believe me, ask one of them.”