He doesn’t have any faith. He doesn’t  have any faith in god. No faith in himself, the people or even the government. Above all, he doesn’t  have faith in humanity and what righteousness it ought to have divulged upon his stagnant little soul.  He had a simple theory, people do not exist without faith. All light lost and no glimmer of hope yet there he is, a petty rambling soul. Just mere breathing, consuming the priceless longevity of our physical world and most abhorrently, following the herd like a sheep destined not for butchery but for senseless wandering.  A king and clown, an imbecile. Refusing to believe his own transcendence from a  sprightly little boy to a fiddler.  “Improvise and act”, he used to say to me, mere words.  The void that ruthless encounters with fate which had been dug is immense and I sometimes wonder if fate itself is proud of such a callousness.  How is anybody to have one ounce of faith in him when he had extinguished all his energy fighting with his inner demons  and his ebony self that he doesn’t  have any vigor left to fight the world. When the way of the world is to fight or fight, he flew away from the misery of believing in something worth fighting for . Such a lassitude ensued from that draining fight that it seems an eternity of nothingness in his life.  Just like the Two-Face said, “either you die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain”.  And here he is, from a dreamer to a common man. I guess everyone gets a shot at being a hero once in a life, maybe it is just a matter of patience that discerns hero from a legend.