I built a church to house my broken devotion for a god that doesn't let me breathe. I would drag the dead god around the churchyard all day. hungry for simple blessings, what more could I seek. it was beautiful, the god... utile. More so than when it was alive, anyway.

Sometimes I would scrunch up my nose, the god reeked of memories. And the stench clung to my back like a nagging child, heavy and too free. Other days, that girl from the manor would tell me I was lucky, I have a god to please. Some temporary respite in the feelings of possession, though heavy as it might be. Damned if I keep it, damned if I leave.

Today, but today, I just don't have enough will, enough skill, to pray to a god that doesn't let me breathe. So today, I buried the bastard down.

It is beautiful, the god... now asleep. Never seemed like mine to keep, anyway.