Konstling

It was as if Prometheus took extra care sculpting this boy from clay. He was a perfect first draft, untouchable. Something that should’ve been placed in a polished glass box for hundreds of years and passed down from generation to generation, unmarred by the air outside of his virginal confinement. How miserable it would be to be Giorno’s maker. Imagine that: the finest, softest mud from the lake obeying the will of your fingers and vision of something so beautiful, only to be ripped away from your loving hands and endowed wisdom, cursed to mortality. What a disgusting vision, Bruno thought. He’d want to keep Giorno forever. So well crafted, an artist would never want to part with it. A magnum opus meant only for a single pair of eyes and eyes only. Touching, feeling, dragging your fingertips along the oil-painted shadows and still-soft clay would ruin it. Bruno didn’t dare lay a hand on such a thing. He was just observing, just admiring…