"Do you talk to god?" His eyes somehow magnified the sunlight as he spoke, like fire set in crystal.

"Sometimes, I do."

"Do you believe in god?"

"Usually not."

"Do you believe in him when you talk?"

"Usually not."

"Then who are you talking to?"

"Myself, really. I guess."

"What does that say about how you see yourself?"

"It's late."

"Are you tired?"

"No."

"Are you tired of this conversation?"

"I don't think so."

"What then?"

"I am afraid, I think, of where we are going."

"The path ahead is clear and even."

"My knees ache."

"Do you want to stop?"

"Yes."

"Will we?"

"No."

They walked in silence for a while.

"I think I'm begging."

"Begging?"

"Yeah, like if I plead enough I can bring him into fruition."

"That would make you god, not him."

"That's what I want least in this world."

"What do you want, then?"

"To be led. I think."

"Why?"

"The path ahead is not clear and even."

"It is."

His eyes set shadow down, like satin across the horizon, "not to me."

"I see."

Silence.

"I could walk there with you instead. If it would help."

"I don't know."

"I could lead you. Until he replies, at least."

"You don't know anything about where we're going."

"I don't care."

"You probably should."

"I don't think I care about that, either."

"Until he replies?"

"Until then."

"Do you believe in god?"

"No."

"Then I think perhaps he already did."

Their hands intertwined then, and they walked onwards, a set of bright eyes cutting through the darkness.