— damn everything American! To hell with this American idiocy! Your stupid songs, stupid greasy dishes, stupid streets, stupid everything! I hate it! — it's probably just stress. your throat is bursting from screaming, and an innocent plate flew down. perhaps the cut from the splinter sobered you up a bit, and that gave Vincent a head start.

It was hard for you to move to another country. not so much on the issue of climate, but on the issue of culture. you are a conceptual person, you need to have several meanings everywhere, wrapped in a package of symbolism and covered with a veil of transcendence. Your head is working like a clock, and you are ready to solve cultural and aesthetic riddles day and night... And that's what you missed in the States. burgers, neon advertisements, songs with simple lyrics — that's how you saw America. you needed conceptualism, and you completely forgot about George Crumb, Ray Bradbury and other talents, because you were fed up with primitiveness. And Vincent... Vincent could only watch in silence and sigh sadly.

his help was to remove the plate fragment from your hand and disinfect the wound. You grit your teeth so as not to show that you're bothered by the pain, even though it's too obvious. Vincent already understood you, and it didn't take words. His black hair, pulled back in a thin ponytail, was the only thing you saw, and you didn't even want to look at his hand. they didn't want to admit that he was reassuring you again, doing you a favor. favor is such a scary word.

— if you want, we can go to the museum, — it's not that he really wants to go to the museum, but as long as the dishes in the house are intact, he agrees to everything. Vega smiles again, as if he's just talking to a child, and you feel an unpleasant pang of guilt. It's scary to think for how long he tolerates you. — or I'll just buy a record of classical music... Ah, academic, I'm sorry. I'm always confusing these concepts... I'm far from such a great mind, huh.