Every king has a fall. Every solider has to crawl. Both at least once in their prime. At least once in their lifetime. A Saint is heaven sent. They have stood where the Devils been, and stayed there for days. Weeks, and then months... only to come back with something so touched. A soul of sinner, the crown of a king, the badge of a soldier, and a choir to sing. Patience is key, and even Saints have break downs. Our minds are always pressured into some kind of sound. Silence is loud. It is the loudest thing I've heard since I've seen you around. You should know that I wait. If I didn't, well, I guess that wouldn't make me a Saint. Now would it?