And the tears came. They ebbed and flowed like a seasonal flood. But this wasn't a seasonal occurrence. He hadn't cried in ages. It seemed as if he was crying from memory. Memories of a past he didn't want. Memories from a past that had broken him. But he wept all the same, shedding all shame and fear. He wept like never before. And those painful, watery utterances kept flowing. Almost like a deep wound. Perhaps it was a wound. But he didn't know. He couldn't think. He couldn't stop. He cried silently in the deep night. He let the tears stain his face. He wanted them to stain his face. He wanted the tears to purge his unholiness. And as suddenly as they had started, the tears stopped. They stopped with the speed of thought. But he wasn't thinking anymore. And finally he came to his senses. The paper he had been writing on was soaked. The ink had spread and smudged. Instead of coherent words, flimsy remnants of his thoughts remained. It's true, he thought