The Armenian adventures of Saint Bartholomew ended badly; or not that bad depending on how you look at it, because being skinned with of King Astiages very hands earned him a place very close to The Lord.
That’s why I assigned the role of Saint Bartholomew to Leonard Cohen because he also used his skin to reach Heaven, for his persistence in getting The Grace being surrounded by beautiful women he fancied. He was endowed with a prophetic aura. Love brought him closer to some kind of mystery that transcended the material nature of touch. Fucking was his healing prayer and the women, the relief in his permanent Via Crucis to perfection. Would he ever lose that breath? To be disappointed and perceive the futility of that act and the horror of the void of repetition? I do not think so. When a person converts to Buddhism, it is natural to meditate and to be able to turn each breath into a mantra. At the end of his life, his tanned hide would be his offering to the Buddha, the substance of all his poetry.