The dark room, smelling of alcohol and tobacco, as if it had absorbed their smell deep into its walls, gradually emptied after a noisy and lively evening: already tired and drunk people who had not yet managed to crawl home, slowly loitered around the large hall, getting up and slipping away from the sofas placed along the walls, it seemed as if on purpose arranged so as to completely liberate the center, then with soft carpets and pillows scattered on the floor in this very center.

The boisterous fun that raged here a couple of hours ago was replaced by the quiet intoxicating weight of emptiness and comprehensive inaction.

Tom, who was sitting with his feet on one of the long sofas, barely moved his hand, in which a cigarette was smoldering, his head, laid on his own shoulder, seemed a little heavy from strong booze and weed, but did not crack yet.

Kaulitz tapped his chest with his fingers, noisily inhaling the heavy air. The room was so smoky that for the next couple of hours you wouldn't even have to light yourself a new cigarette — it just wasn't necessary.

Next to him, but on the floor, was a silhouette that he didn't really see until he rubbed his eyes. Turning roughly on side, he closed his eyes, listening, but then his hand thudded on the sofa as if offering to sit next to him.

The silence that reigned did not bother at all, but rather lay on the mind like a silk handkerchief, pleasantly and softly. Such ethereality of the prevailing atmosphere seemed to lay a tired mind on feather beds.