No one knows how he managed to persuade his father to stay in this place, teeming with immature fools with poetic nonsense in their heads.

There was no question of any theater. It was as if he had lost the ability to dream, think and rejoice in such primitive things as, for example, the priceless, sobering from the gloom of school days, Mr. Keating's lessons, the sunset hours and the soft, penetrating to the thinnest threads of the heart, the farewell echo of the day.

Neil was drowning, completely and irrevocably, nobody would throw him a lifeline.

Nobody (?)

The indian cave on the outskirts seemed to be dying too. It’s so inappropriate and at the same time. pages dried, dreams burned and poets died, but life went on as usual and there was no end to it.

Neil will probably never be able to forget how he looked at you, mesmerized and completely fascinated, as if you was not reading poetry, but acting like a hero, like a greek god.

As if your voice did not falter so much and it was absurdly obvious, as if only the two of you existed, and the words were pouring out in an incoherent drip, trembling the eyelids and eyes burned, and Neil shone brighter than usual.

And it seemed that the universe itself did not require its intervention, Neil himself turned into a whole universe filled with myriads of stars and unknowingly and tacitly became a guiding star.

However, like a short blanket, under which your feet always freeze, no matter how you pull it on, it's still not enough. Springs creak, ink pages rustle, hidden under the pillow, hearts freeze.

"Hey, are you asleep?" Perry's voice breaks the silence between them. The creaking of the bed, the breath escaping in ghostly clouds of steam, Neil perry looking like a ghost and his roommate with a heart of sorrow and a plaid on his shoulders.