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Prosecuted and incorrectly sentenced to Hell, I have to study mounds of documents and books to figure out some argument to get out. There would likely be huge lines to submit each argument and weeks of waiting for an answer to the next step. Questions of terror arise: “What if I destroy a crucial document? With no means of knowing what it was, how can I request a copy of it?” And it likely won’t be any library either. No bathrooms, perhaps a well and a small garden somewhere, but hard to locate in an easily forgettable location. Eventually I realize I’ll be walking this mile or two for an eternity, so I better memorize the route. No pens, no pencils, no crayons. Not a damn thing to write with anywhere. So I resort to writing with urine the pathway hoping it won’t evaporate, but of course it does because it’s surrounded by fucking books! One typo on a submission form results in a rejection. Incorrect grammar or punctuation throws your whole claim into high suspicion if not immediate rejection. The form is scanned for biological signatures to make sure it’s clean. Each form is scanned and compiled in a case file against you. If your case grows significantly so, you’re quarantined away from the only source of redemption for a long period of time. Like all Hells, eventually if you’re wise enough you’ll make your way out. Or if you’re lucky enough someone else will save you.