A preacher stands alone in the middle of the desert, his neck arched toward the sky, his eyes locked on the moon, and his thoughts scattered among the stars.
Look up at that moon, like a red eyeball glistening in the sky, staring down at us.
He shudders, as the image of a familiar face shakes him violently from his dream-like world.
And recall that man's name, his legend.
The man is reminded in the form of weakness that he is still human, and so he succumbs to his humanity. Collapsing onto the soft sandy sheets of the sleepy desert, the man pulls himself onto his elbows and, with a sickening crack, turns onto his back. He stares into the vast sky, realizing his continued presence here was due entirely to luck and sin, and the latter had finally outweighed the former.
The time has come…
Finally, his mind wanders to the matter of life. His, surely, was worthless, but what about those extinguished by his hands? He tells himself it was always for the children, but knows this to be false. But in reflecting on all of this, the man feels no remorse. Instead, he is filled with a brand new motivation, a far stronger determination, as he struggles to his feet once more, a man of the cloth forging his own path against the will of God.
...and the only tale which should be told is that of the footsteps that lead into the future.