I was packing the last remaining items in my apartment when a gentle breeze whispered through the eighth story windows pushing dust and dirt across the weathered wood floor. Saint Peter was waiting for me to let him in at the front door downstairs. After taking the service elevator to the lobby, an old man, mad at God, played the electric organ while struggling with a constant duality of love and hate. I set my belongings aside to listen to his haunting interpretation of Franz Liszt’s “Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2”.