âwhen does it get better?â arthur whispered his pain like a prayer. he stared at the sky above, cradling the clouds as they went off their merry way. âi want to be like them,â he said. âto know where i am going and what i will become.â
vincent laid his head on arthurâs shoulder. âi donât know. maybe we donât 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.â
aimless and without direction, spending its whole life in a chamber. âlike a bullet?â
âmaybe.â vincent took arthurâs hand in his, kissed the knuckles of it. âwhat will be your fire?â
arthur paused, thinking. âwhatever will be yours.â