[If this God was so sensitive to the prattling of a non-believer, it would only make his case firmer as far as he was concerned. They had been told little stories to keep them afraid, to make them behave as if that would provide them a better life. His cynicism had only deepened with age, though he had to admit that Richard's shock was pleasing to see. He enjoying the moment even further for it.
Yet he stepped in closer so that their bodies were inches apart.] Why do we need a God to tell us to be better? If that was what the end goal was, wouldn't it be harder to fight against that nature? No sin is beautiful and poignant, otherwise, why would you and I still be standing after all we have done? If there is a God, they don't care about the petty and paltry actions of humanity. We're just ants to them.
[Silco almost snorted a laugh, and he knew that Richard couldn't believe this nonsense. Who could? Son of a God tortured and murdered and God does nothing? What a waste.] Torture and murdering a crying man is hardly purity. It is weakness that he wouldn't fight back against his oppressors? What tale does that tell you, Richard? If you hang your head, meal, and cry, you will die by those who will never believe in you anyway. That's how martyrs shackle guilt.
[He leaned into Richard's hand further, allowing his guard down for a moment as he savored the quiet contact between them. Then it was gone just as fast and he had to take a small step to avoid stumbling forward. He shifted himself and tucked his hands back in his coat pockets.
He shrugged, stepping away to instead seat himself on a front row bench. He was digging in his coat for his cigar case.] They possess whispers of me which they may or may not tell. No worse than the sister who you are so fond drinking with.
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Yet he stepped in closer so that their bodies were inches apart.] Why do we need a God to tell us to be better? If that was what the end goal was, wouldn't it be harder to fight against that nature? No sin is beautiful and poignant, otherwise, why would you and I still be standing after all we have done? If there is a God, they don't care about the petty and paltry actions of humanity. We're just ants to them.
[Silco almost snorted a laugh, and he knew that Richard couldn't believe this nonsense. Who could? Son of a God tortured and murdered and God does nothing? What a waste.] Torture and murdering a crying man is hardly purity. It is weakness that he wouldn't fight back against his oppressors? What tale does that tell you, Richard? If you hang your head, meal, and cry, you will die by those who will never believe in you anyway. That's how martyrs shackle guilt.
[He leaned into Richard's hand further, allowing his guard down for a moment as he savored the quiet contact between them. Then it was gone just as fast and he had to take a small step to avoid stumbling forward. He shifted himself and tucked his hands back in his coat pockets.
He shrugged, stepping away to instead seat himself on a front row bench. He was digging in his coat for his cigar case.] They possess whispers of me which they may or may not tell. No worse than the sister who you are so fond drinking with.