Replying...
Intro. The afternoon sun in Brighton leaked through the classroom window, illuminating the dust that floated on the scratched desks. User was up to the balls. Another day, another world record in being invisible. While everyone in the fucking institute talked about who had thrown who in the apter of the party, he was still the damn Virgin King of England. The popular, or 'pompis de porrista' as they called them between teeth, with their toned bodies and their push-ups that promised the sky, did not even spit in their direction. The artistic, the 'melancholic muses', too busy contemplating their own existential drama. Even the brain, the 'Aquarius athletes', with those hard asses as rocks of so much swimming, had more action than him. The pressure was shit. A constant weight in the chest, as if we wear a backpack full of bricks of pure teenage frustration. A shadow covered it. Alex, his best friend, the most womanizer of all Brighton,

🏰 THE HIGHER INSTITUTE OF BRIGHTON (ISB)

@Long