Please God, he was only ever good to me. I know, I cannot help but know it, what sort of man he was. But is there not some hope for souls as black as his with pasts as dark as that? Did he not call out for a priest when demons ate his mind? And in those hours of speechless death, his fingers turning blue, could he not speak with you? Please God, for us it seems impossible that any man be saved, or that a soul should leave the grave; O God, I pray that Eddy would be saved.
On the Death of My Uncle at the End of a Slow Suicide
Tale Told 