On a downhill slide the desperate man clings, having cast all things aside-- the good and the bad out of anger or boredom or a driving urge to assimilate and blend in. And yet, upon that fulcrum as gravity gives way, the very things he cast aside are found to be the very things he reaches for-- his bloody fingers trace soft words of regret as he scrabbles for purchase in the loose scree sliding him to his doom, his feet beneath him unable to stop his terminal descent. If he could but find handholds and lift himself into the arms of that which he didn't value before the fall, he would be saved from himself because the fall is into the madness of the mind. Unworthy of salvation, beneath contempt, still beats a human heart yearning for something better, someone to cling to and hide within from gibbering lunacy waiting patiently to devour him. Tears spell out his words in the dust as he begs for forgiveness, no longer in hope of salvation, but in hope of proving his contrition so as to hear that beautiful accent one last time before the darkness swallows the light.