Under tree canopies and shadow casts, on nature crafted benches, we sat breaking stale loafs and drinking sour-wine of sorrow because a had man died, but in his own righteousness. He had lived a life enviable and admirable deceitfully conceited in his own dogma of sanctity and religious opium! He was to some, a cynosure of perfection, perhaps a law keeper of bespoke morals… This is not a story that portrays the best lesson, but a narrative that describes a blind commitment to lying vanities, a man’s vile indulgence, soothing soul and body but an absolute denial of saintly piety. We ourselves have hitherto grown in irony, becoming men-pleasers, lovers of lascivious inclines amongst manifold desires for open concupiscence…a stow away from realities that a significant number of us embrace wilfully. Therefore when the man died and mourners came, honouring the moment and supposed life of bliss and truth, one which death now gratifies.