[He looks at Julian and knows that it's for faces like this that he does what he does. It's for the poets and the artists, the wonderfully bright people who have a little faith in humanity still. Even though few of them are optimistic, they see a worthiness in everything. He spies not because he hates England, but because he loves her too much, and has faith in her still. He has faith in the faithful.
Those like Julian Bell who stands before him, winged, and worried over him. It's like a dream on the grasses of Trinity and Kings.]
A guardian angel.
[He starts to laugh but the sadness gripping it chokes him. He ends up having a cough and the sheen of his eyes heavy with weighted saltwater. It's nearly too much... that worry in Julian's gaze that besets a wider panic. Guy can read it, even in his own spiral-down cling to what he believes are remnants of reality. Oh Julian.
He turns his head toward the door. Julian can follow him, can't he? But there's a flick of a look back to the man with the printed wings.]
You'll be gone when I get there, won't you?
[Not we, but I. He still believes, with all his heart, that Julian is a figment of the wounds beset in it. He's scratched over them for years, and the festering pain of it all has brought him to this.
A delusion of grandeur. What a grand thing, to have a glimpse of love.]
[action]
Those like Julian Bell who stands before him, winged, and worried over him. It's like a dream on the grasses of Trinity and Kings.]
A guardian angel.
[He starts to laugh but the sadness gripping it chokes him. He ends up having a cough and the sheen of his eyes heavy with weighted saltwater. It's nearly too much... that worry in Julian's gaze that besets a wider panic. Guy can read it, even in his own spiral-down cling to what he believes are remnants of reality. Oh Julian.
He turns his head toward the door. Julian can follow him, can't he? But there's a flick of a look back to the man with the printed wings.]
You'll be gone when I get there, won't you?
[Not we, but I. He still believes, with all his heart, that Julian is a figment of the wounds beset in it. He's scratched over them for years, and the festering pain of it all has brought him to this.
A delusion of grandeur. What a grand thing, to have a glimpse of love.]