Little Beto woke up on the side of the road, he had abandoned the modern world. He rejected the Dialectic.
He had a muddy drab suit, and he lay searching his pockets, doing his morning inventory.
Fixing his tie, he slicked the sweat and grime back in his hair, and stood up.
Slapping that dirt off his suit, he looked on down the road.
That road, that held him like a baby, that held him like a baby every night.
And he began to walk on down that road, that weaved through the long and empty desert, stretching out before him.
And as the days and the months mumbled by, he walked and walked and whittled, and prayed, and grew old, mumbling.
Mumbling.
And his beard began to grow.
And it grew and grew.
Past his arms, past his legs, down the road, and on down that road, like a river, like a train, rolling across the desert, rolling across the sky, blowing out steam and whistle clouds. blowing out steam and whistle clouds.
And,
Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Oh Man.
He was blowing out clouds, of gratitude, worship, purpose, and joy.