Deep canyon-like voices, conveying tiny truths, while sunlight streams, light that is impervious to its irritating effects on me. Too much light makes it hard to read in this particular corner of the stacks. I want to know what Agatha Christie has come up with. But the light doesn’t give a fuck. Which then has me thinking that the sun doesn’t give a fuck either. Which concludes that Universe doesn’t either. The murder has yet to be solved.

But the books surrounding you are like friends. And that helps. And of course I can move to another part of the library. But there are so many people occupying the other tables and you are just taking more a chance with their idiosyncrasies than the rest of the Universe.

I turn the page, having given up on the current one. I squint on, finding phrases that lead me forward, toward other truths.