[ WP ] A monk dies and ascends to a place called heaven . To his horror , he now understands why only the faithful get in .

There was a dazzling white flash, and then the ground turned sideways and leapt toward his face. The monk heard the crack of his own skull off the pavement more than felt it, and rather than the pain that he expected, warmth and numbness washed over him. His eyes twirled around in his skull but he could see the car skidding to a stop just beyond him. Glass tip-toed to the ground. He took a breath. 
 
 It was a mistake. Like tossing gas on a fire, the breath pulled an unimaginable weight of agony upon him, crushing, inconsolable, bone rawness, blood ache, the breath -- a mere sip of air -- screamed from his lips back out into the world of burned rubber, smoke, coppery metallic tangy mouth feel. His head was being torn apart, cell by cell; it felt like a pair of hands were buried to his neck, prying his skull from itself, a sticky ripping wetness deep into his 
 
 [ THIS SPACE LEFT INTENTIONALLY BLANK ] 
 
 Ahead stood a figure. Tall, massive even, silhouetted against a perfect white background. This figure was a shadow in the absence of light. The figure imposed something into the monk's mind. 
 
 You are in heaven 
 
 The monk doubted it, but he 
 
 It is heaven 
 
 In looking around, he saw nothing. It was featureless white expanse, save the massive shadow figure, whose position followed the monk's eyes. 
 
 Heaven is not how you imagined it 
 
 The monk started to speak, but his voice did not seem to work. 
 
 You leave the powers of the living behind you 
 
 He then began to wonder if thought, if reflection, if wondering were powers of the living. 
 
 Your sassiness is duly noted 
 
 The massive silhouette expanded. It wrapped around the monk, starting at the middle of his vision and expanding upwards and downwards, cloaking his vision like a retina tearing from the back of an eye. 
 
 In heaven you are a steward of thoughts 
 
 Thought police? 
 
 It is what you make it 
 
 Are there no others? 
 
 Gone is the time for you to be with others 
 
 But what of my fellow ascetics? 
 
 There are no fellows in heaven there is only you 
 
 The blackness cleared, and all was white. In the whiteness, tiny at first, a cirrus puff wafted into view. It sounded like, `` I want to kill her''. The monk swatted at it, and it dissipated. Another small, gray cloud, `` I should kill myself'', and he swatted that as well. Then there were two: `` I am worthless'' mingled with `` What is the point anyway? ``, and the tiny puffs billowed into one another into a tiny nimbus. There was a miniature crack of thunder, and the rain from this nimbus was a chorus of self denigration. The monk swatted at the nimbus, which made it rain more. He began to panic, and wished he had a towel. A towel appeared under the nimbus and soaked up the gray-blue rain, but soon it was saturated and began slowly dripping the thoughts. The monk imagined a bucket, and imagined wringing out the towel into the bucket. He envisioned the dank contents of the bucket clearing, softening, becoming white. And it all disappeared. 
 
 Your training is complete 
 
 On the horizon loomed a massive anvil thunderhead. The monk felt a damp, heavy breeze. The cloud approached.
