Sergey pressed his back against the cold but soft white wall. It was dirty around him, his drawings and notes and bird plans were scattered about. He wanted to tear them up, but his hands were shackled by the damned straitjacket. He sighed, feeling pain in his head.

. . .

Suddenly Sergei perked up, and heard a sound that he thought was the cry of another patient, but no. Soon he felt a strange tension and the sound of feathers (Which he, of course, came up with.). Razumovsky desperately pressed himself against the wall, clutching his red hair with his hands, as if trying to hide.

— «Get out of my head!»