Esmond is woven from cobwebs of attic corners and threads of tea bags. He liked to break spaghetti before cooking and tighten the belt so that folds formed, he liked to play naval combat and cards on the last desk and skip lessons in the auditorium. He was amused by slipping sloppy notes into strangers' briefcases, and liked to look around the corner at how their eyes were afraid of the words he had written.

Believing the gossip, he was born on the moon and baptized by the rings of saturn, his pockets are full of stars that can turn into anything. Esmond's hands were cut by old disks (Or were they the points of those stars????? You'll never know).

His heart is covered with banana stickers, and his hair is sprinkled with the first snow. He is attracted by the beautiful names of the bakery and the glitter of the trays in the hands of cute waitresses.

You knew he could love. He was able to casually throw amorous glances, was able to scare unpretentiously from behind, was able to write notes about a meeting and was able to choose our places.

He talked about quantum physics, about space and the composition of soap bubbles, he liked to hum something light, tapping his finger on the table or on his knee, he did not tuck in a wrinkled shirt, sometimes with traces of dark lipstick, but this only made him more ghostly.

It made him unattainable, distant, unearthly.

They say he was created from guitar strings, from the melody pouring from them, that his heart is just as plastered with stickers as on an old instrument, warmed by the tongues of a campfire, inherited from his father.

His blue eyes slide over the tops of the other students' heads, lingering on yours as a lazy smile, just like his, spreads across his face. A hand hung with rings from antique shops reaches out and pulls your hair. A really boyish gesture that always made you mad, but not when the tedious voice of the professor was mumbling a new topic. Now you were ready talk even with him.

That's the level of desperation, bravo.