He lives alone, in a tidy cottage by the sea-salty river, and he and his life flow onward beside it.

He practices his own form of homebrew Christianity, much in the same way he smokes his own form of homebrew cigarettes: a little tobacco, a little marijuana, a touch of menthol, all rolled up in one soothing package.

He curses often, laughs loud and easily, and the calm slow inner workings of his heart are full of the laborer's generosity and a twisted, playful form of reverence and respect. He has worked hard in his time, drawing fish from the salt sea, drawing ore from the stony ground, and now he can appreciate what it is to reach out and pluck an apple from a tree, with no effort, to hold it in one's hand like a blessing. The scent of salt and beer and smoke and apples has become one with his scarred skin, worked itself into the fabric of his shirts.

The sound of stringed instruments attends him as he sits on his porch and surveys his realm with one golden and benevolent eye. To him all moments are one and all actions defy gravity and all things pass away slowly, bad with the good, into the haze of an easy fall morning. They duck along the cover of the river and out of sight.

He has watched life pass and fought it and loved it and found it good and worthwhile in the end, something to treasure. He is content.