alking down Post Street late one Monday night I passed an altar glowing at the corner of Leavenworth. Two Latinos, a young man and an elderly woman, stood staring at the flowers and the candles, and I stopped and asked if they knew who the altar was for. The man said it was for his brother, who had been struck and killed by a car on that corner on Friday. It was the saddest thing. I didn't know what to say, except that I was so sorry. I stood there with them for a moment, and as I started to leave I told him to take care. He said thank you, tears in his eyes, and appreciatively nodded. A loved one vanishing from your life forever without any warning is rough—no time to brace yourself, no chance for last words, no closure. That weighed on my mind as I walked to Death Guild, a club whose marquee depicts a body hanging by the neck from a noose tied to a tree branch, death becoming a self-involved metaphor for escape from suburban adolescent angst through art damaged dance music and lots of makeup, a notion that would probably be of little comfort to those poor people standing out in the rain, lighting votive candles and weeping.