The if I can surprised him: maybe Savino had met too many cynics recently, or seen too many miserable things himself, but it seemed as though Prewett was not entirely as jaded as he seemed. Maybe he would be amenable to meeting again, Savino mused, his mind careening off on the idea, and discussing the Sight some more.
“Sometimes,” Savino remarked, of his visions being more chipper. Often they weren’t; but this gentleman and Mr. Carmichael were proof of it, that sometimes people’s visions had a darker thread running through them. What was the point of the pattern? What was the reason for seeing things? Savino had never yet found a concrete answer.
Not that it had stopped him looking for one. “It doesn’t always help when I try to intervene, either,” he admitted with a sigh and a brief glance of camaraderie. “But I have found there is some merit in trying. Even if that moment is fixed, I am sure that not every moment is –” he paused, trying to explain himself as coherently as he could, in spite of his throbbing head, “so that even if the destination is fixed, you can sometimes make a different path to it. Does that make sense?” Savino might have accepted his destination, but he still held that he had some power in the journey. Maybe the journey was more important; maybe even changing the path made enough of a difference.
Or maybe, Savino considered, stubbing out the cigarette, he was just an incurable fool to think so.
“Sometimes,” Savino remarked, of his visions being more chipper. Often they weren’t; but this gentleman and Mr. Carmichael were proof of it, that sometimes people’s visions had a darker thread running through them. What was the point of the pattern? What was the reason for seeing things? Savino had never yet found a concrete answer.
Not that it had stopped him looking for one. “It doesn’t always help when I try to intervene, either,” he admitted with a sigh and a brief glance of camaraderie. “But I have found there is some merit in trying. Even if that moment is fixed, I am sure that not every moment is –” he paused, trying to explain himself as coherently as he could, in spite of his throbbing head, “so that even if the destination is fixed, you can sometimes make a different path to it. Does that make sense?” Savino might have accepted his destination, but he still held that he had some power in the journey. Maybe the journey was more important; maybe even changing the path made enough of a difference.
Or maybe, Savino considered, stubbing out the cigarette, he was just an incurable fool to think so.
