Even his name bore no resemblance to anything that would suffice a place and purpose. The letters were composed only of the darkest river ever rushing on and on, never stepping inside himself twice; his family genealogy a peoples who lived either here, there, and no where for sure. Ever trudging on despite himself, despite everything and despite nothing. Just for the heck of it- who should ask for more, he begs the question, and asks the priest? Little does he know, oh, for where will he ever go? The little one, not so big at all. Who can find meaning, he thinks, in this world with justifications for action and truth; goodness and wellness? Whatever it takes, he thinks, whatever makes comradery sans whatever takes a commitment and lightness without tears or dark corners. "Whatever is contrary," the river says; "oh, however, to the contrary," the river smiles to the bend.