It felt like the book wouldn't let me rest, like it wanted to tell me more, like he wanted to tell me more. Wherever I went, I'd see his eyes following me - in the corridor, outside the window. But he didn't mean to haunt me. He was just a desperate soul, wanting to be understood, every fine detail of his story should be visualized, analyzed, then crystallized, like it meant something after all. The more I let myself fall into this, the harder it was to stop. Already now I felt our spines tenderly woven together, a fragment of someone else in me, that would stare at me through my own eyes in the mirror.