[Guy bows his head for a moment because despite the fact that he's the sort of fellow who answers things smartly without thinking, he just can't do that with Julian. He never has. Instead, he finds himself being honest.

He wants nothing more than to be honest, for all the things that could happen.]

Well enough. Tired.

[Luceti has given him a break enough from the hush-hush, but only enough that his mind has started to addle without it. Particularly because he doesn't trust this place, as beautiful as near-communism is. It isn't truly, and with fascist control over it, there's plenty to be wary about. It makes him tired, wondering how he can play his game here. It shows in his eyes.

Though where to proceed from stark honesty evades him. He can't ask a man who has been dead the same question. "Oh yes, how is the afterlife? Plenty of white, I gather!"]

It isn't so terrible, here. I've read your volumes. Wrote down the poem you don't recognize for you.