This is a story of mourning and lamentation.
"In my past, there was a bastard."
"He never saved anyone, never earned anyone's approval. Even the people he wanted to save hated him."
"His friends died because of him. He even killed one with his own hands, all because that bastard asked a cold, indifferent question."
"He kept making mistakes, kept throwing away everything he had, a bastard living in the narrow space between isolation and madness..."
"And yet a life like that was loved by God. The irony is impossible to miss."
"Because of that love, the person he is now is no longer who he was. He has a new life. No, to be precise, none of the people he was before were truly him. They were merely stories, linked together by people who tried to seize meaning from them on their own."
