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Summary
“Wil,” he hums, “do you believe in God?”
“Yes,” Wilbur says, but the words have something bitter in them. “I do.”
“Mm,” he nods, “do you pray?”
Wilbur scrunches his nose up, “no.”
“But you believe?” Tommy clarifies, tilting his head. Then, slower, he repeats, “you believe in God but you don’t pray.”
“I don’t worship gods, Tommy,” Wilbur says, tilting his head back, “I think there is one — or maybe more — but I don’t worship them. I don’t think god is good.”
“I get that,” he mumbles, “I like to think there are a shitload of Gods who are all just as flawed as us. Struggling to maintain a good God society. It’s — well, it’s nice. To think even all powerful beings kinda suck at their jobs sometimes and fuck up. Makes me feel better about my fuck-ups, you know.”
During sunset at the Brighton sea, crimeboys discuss God.
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