Chapter I, standing under a bent streetlamp, was waiting for something. For what, I didn't know. Shiny threads, reflecting the brightness emitted by the lamp, poured from the sky. Gently, they landed on my skin and left a sense of warmth and comfort. Yet, I didn't care about them, as I simply wiped the remaining droplets off my cheeks. Obsessively, the drops kept running down my face. Staggering down the sidewalk I saw huge, black, gnarled trees, like the ones next to Gatsby's castle. Those huge leaves blocked the moonlight from reaching the ground. The leaves swayed gently in the wind, yet they stood mercilessly still against the moonlight, allowing nothing to pass through the thin spaces between each leaf. My coat was completely soaked, but I felt no chill, as my body melted into a comfortable pool of insulation. I took a slow, brief look at the old rusty buildings, all dead. In all this darkness, there was a green light. Surprised, I looked closer. The light was that of Daisy's dock, but smaller and dimmer; however, it was so beautiful. It stood there trembling and for a moment I questioned my vision: “Is this real?” I walked towards that light, but no matter how close I got, the light eluded me. It slowly receded into the darkness as I went. Puddles on the ground soaked my socks as I trudged recklessly, urgently wanting to reach that captivating light. So I trudged steadily through the deep mud puddles. Like obligations, they dragged me back. Uncomfortably, I freed my feet from the puddle and then, u... middle of paper... om. After getting some duct tape and sealing the crack in the ceiling, I took, of course, the handwritten copy of "The Great Gatsby." Sitting comfortably on the old spongy sofa by the window, I began to read, for the fifteenth time. Sometimes I wondered if these characters were real or fictional. The dramatic, prosperous parties and extreme scenes made the story seem so ridiculous, just like that dream. Thinking about the dream, I couldn't remember any details about it. Like the toilet flush, it never came back. “I guess I'm just a crazy writer.” I thought to myself. Looking out the broken window, I tried to think about my life in New York. But apart from poor Philadelphia I saw nothing. Time has not deteriorated my memory, but I choose to. I never thought about what he was looking at, but there was nothing but that wet, desperate light.

Topic > Chapter I, standing under a bent streetlamp, was waiting for something. For what, I didn't know. Shiny threads, reflecting the brightness emitted by the lamp, poured from the sky. Gently, they landed on my skin and left a sense of warmth and comfort. Yet, I didn't care about them, as I simply wiped the remaining droplets off my cheeks. Obsessively, the drops kept running down my face. Staggering down the sidewalk I saw huge, black, gnarled trees, like the ones next to Gatsby's castle. Those huge leaves blocked the moonlight from reaching the ground. The leaves swayed gently in the wind, yet they stood mercilessly still against the moonlight, allowing nothing to pass through the thin spaces between each leaf. My coat was completely soaked, but I felt no chill, as my body melted into a comfortable pool of insulation. I took a slow, brief look at the old rusty buildings, all dead. In all this darkness, there was a green light. Surprised, I looked closer. The light was that of Daisy's dock, but smaller and dimmer; however, it was so beautiful. It stood there trembling and for a moment I questioned my vision: “Is this real?” I walked towards that light, but no matter how close I got, the light eluded me. It slowly receded into the darkness as I went. Puddles on the ground soaked my socks as I trudged recklessly, urgently wanting to reach that captivating light. So I trudged steadily through the deep mud puddles. Like obligations, they dragged me back. Uncomfortably, I freed my feet from the puddle and then, u... middle of paper... om. After getting some duct tape and sealing the crack in the ceiling, I took, of course, the handwritten copy of "The Great Gatsby." Sitting comfortably on the old spongy sofa by the window, I began to read, for the fifteenth time. Sometimes I wondered if these characters were real or fictional. The dramatic, prosperous parties and extreme scenes made the story seem so ridiculous, just like that dream. Thinking about the dream, I couldn't remember any details about it. Like the toilet flush, it never came back. “I guess I'm just a crazy writer.” I thought to myself. Looking out the broken window, I tried to think about my life in New York. But apart from poor Philadelphia I saw nothing. Time has not deteriorated my memory, but I choose to. I never thought about what he was looking at, but there was nothing but that wet, desperate light.