“when does it get better?” arthur whispered his pain like a prayer. he stared at the sky above, cradling the clouds as they went off their merry way. “i want to be like them,” he said. “to know where i am going and what i will become.”
vincent laid his head on arthur’s shoulder. “i don’t know. maybe we don’t have a start. maybe it is just the ball that keeps rolling until it catches enough moss. or maybe we are all waiting for something, a spark of fire.”
aimless and without direction, spending its whole life in a chamber. “like a bullet?”
“maybe.” vincent took arthur’s hand in his, kissed the knuckles of it. “what will be your fire?”
arthur paused, thinking. “whatever will be yours.”