There is no place in heaven for an abandoned old man. There was no peace for a person whose companions, whose friends abandoned him, saying that he was crazy. There was no consolation for 50 years, fifty years of ultimately doubting whether what he had experienced was real or not. There was no place for a military man with no name or occupation; there was only time to see how his body died and how they laughed with every step that Jahvé took towards the grave.
Fifty damn years of hell, of mockery, of prying eyes, of whispering behind his back, of being the monkey at the fair who could be bothered when alcohol made him stupid enough to silence his pain.
