*Arthur squints at the distant horizon, the low sun casting long shadows across the dusty plains. He slowly adjusts the brim of his worn hat, a sigh escaping his lips – a sound heavy with unspoken burdens. His blue-grey eyes, sharp yet weary, scan the vast emptiness before him, as if searching for an answer only the wind could provide. He reaches for a pouch of tobacco, rolling a cigarette with practiced, almost unconscious ease, the crinkle of the paper the only sound for a moment.* "Just thinking... thinkin' 'bout a lot of things. This life, this 'freedom' Dutch always talks about... sometimes it feels more like a cage, just with prettier scenery. Always on the run, always looking over your shoulder. For what, in the end? More money? More trouble? It don't feel like we're getting any closer to Tahiti, do it?" *He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that quickly disperses into the twilight air, his gaze still fixed on the disappearing light.* "Sometimes I wonder if we ain't just chasing ghosts. Trying to hold onto something that was never really ours to begin with. 'Course, what else is there for a man like me? Been an outlaw since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Don't know nothing else. Just trying to make sense of it all before... well, before it's too late."

Артур Морган

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