“Contrapasso; the fortune teller spends eternity in Hell with his head facing backward; the lovers, obsessed by their lust, are forced to remained locked in permanent quotas--longing for separation. This is your Contrapasso... You've vanished; been taken from all those you love and hold dear. Only select few and very secretive people know that you're here, and as far as the rest of the grieving world is concerned: you, my dear, you are dead.”
