Sidder lige og ser Dead Poets Society. De får til opgave at skrive et digt, og en rædselsslagen Todd Anderson skal læse sit op. Eller han nægter at have skrevet et, og det ender i impro. Der kommer det her ud af det (impro over uncle Walt): I close my eyes, and this image floats beside me. A sweaty toothed mad man with a stare that pounds my brain. His hands reach out and choke me, and all the time he's mumbling. “Truth, truth.” Like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold. You push it, stretch it, but it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying, to the moment we leave dying, it'll just cover your face, as you wail and cry and scream. Med et blik der hamrer løs i hjernen på en, og han tager kvælertag og mumler "sandhed, sandhed". Det rykker sgu ret godt, det digt!