Chapter Two: Phonograph There really wasn't much from the room aside from the dusty lamp and the end table that it was on. There was an old phonograph machine in one corner, three records laying on the ground haphazardly next to it. One was cracked into four pieces, and since I for the #life of me couldn't think of any way to fix it using what was in the room, I payed it no more thought. There was a wooden rocking chair propped against one of the walls, but no bed. I began to wonder if this was the whole of my eternity. That's it? A half empty room from the '20s? Whoever was in charge of designing heaven wasn't being very creative. Or hell. Either way, it could have been worse. I could always sleep if I had nothing else to do. I sighed, walking back to the phonograph machine and picking up one of the intact records, blowing the dust off. I had started playing the record about thirty seconds ago, but all I got was a dull grating noise. I was beginning to wonder if I had done something wrong, maybe missed some dust, when a voice that sounded as grainy as old music began to come from the machine. "Well, here you are. This is the fruit of your labor."