[ By shoves one hand in his pocket, and casts his gaze at the sky. He's thirsty for a drink. There isn't one at hand. Pity. ]

Mm. Perhaps. But faith is the weed that grows in fallow fields. When all else has died.

[ He gives a little gesture to the world around them, the broader universe, smothered by the storm. ]

The only other option is to let everything perish.