[Again, Messmer paints his world like a prison inescapable, and again, Verso should feel some manner of appreciation for both his honesty and his concern. But it's strange how hollowing these words actually are. He sorts through his mind how he should react to this—I cannot bring thee, Verso—and finds that nothing truly buoys to the surface. Maybe because it hasn't had time to sink in, this new departure from where he had hoped his future path would tread.

Or maybe because he thinks all this circles around the point at hand. The heart of the matter. Perhaps Messmer is aware, and it adds nothing to Verso's argument; but he feels the need to speak it clearly, besides, so that there can be no question.]

I'm not sure you're understanding the point I'm poorly trying to convey, Messmer. If I could go wheeling away into someone else's far-off world, I'll spend all that time wondering about you, thinking about you. Wondering how that flame I'm so accustomed to has fared. Missing it.

[It feels like it would be a fresh new regret, this what-if, to the start of a new tale.]

I want our footsteps to walk the same wretched path. I want— [agh, mon dieu] -I want you. I cannot be any clearer.