The saint was not perfect. No saint is. As he struggled through the barbed wire wasteland, skirting a darkness of tar and empty thoughts, he sometimes dropped a cigarette butt here, an empty soda can there. Once in a while, he crouched beneath the moon above the sand and gave thanks that he was not a fanatic, that he had embraced everyone, that he was just. And he wept holy tears before the sparkling host of heaven. Sometimes he regretted littering, but promised to make it up one day. One has to travel light in the deserts of uncertainty and mirage. Later, the renegades passed through with their armaments and infidel captives. They built a fire beneath the moon and listened to the sand. They found half-smoked cigarettes and dusty soda cans. They stretched out one of the pale captives beneath the moon and burned her with their scavenged cigarettes, while one of the captains fashioned a soda can into a strange device of pointed aluminum shards. It looked like a crown of sorts or a metal flower.