His head flung back. Resting solely on what little faith remained. His gaze set upon a deepening darkness. Begging for some charity of grace. Sorrow swelled to settle as morning dew upon his face. His breathing ceased. And for fear of drowning he sat upright. Gasping for mercy. Inhaling hope. Exhaling in agony. A ritual he preferred in secret. In silence. In mourning. He poured libation. Offering unto Pachamama, Isis, Gaia, Tiamat, what did not belong to him. What he carried for others. To heal. He sipped bittersweet saltwine. Fermented sufferings. And the more he sipped the stronger he wept. Until, finally, he slept. Drunk from his tears.