Dangerous to Listen
Jehan has tried to explain the need to write to his friends, but none of them seem to understand. They listen for a little and then cut him off, nodding impatiently and saying, "Yes, yes, I know." But they don't, and Jehan knows it.
So when he meets the quiet young man sitting with a copy of Thomas of Aquinas' commentaries on the Gospels, he is amazed when he is urged to talk, and keep talking until there is nothing left to say. And when his throat has run dry and the words have gone hoarse and ragged, he isn't done, but he's closer than he ever has been.
The young man smiles, and does not nod, and says, "I don't think I entirely understand, but the way you tell it I'm sure I almost could, when I come to know you better." And in his eyes is something of the burn and pull of poetry, that tug that pulls at Jehan's entire body and tears an ache through his blood until it's torment not to put pen to paper. But it isn't paper Jehan wants to touch.
Later, he will call this night the one where he was lost.