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To him the rhythm was the same, and he could sink in those rooms. White of light, and well used. The library was in three floors, plus a basement full of music.

He used to go to the first floor, where the largest rooms were. His eyes would lose focus then. That was another way of relaxing. Of letting go. Slouched in the semi-comfortable chairs.

Sometimes reading, sometimes not. The thick windows would mute the buzz of the city outside, the constant toing and froing of cars, like the flowing of blood in the veins of the huge city organism

delivering little packages of the story, one at a time.

It was also a safe haven.

He would later come to call it graffiti literature. Not in any demeaning sense.

It’s just that he didn’t fancy lying dead in the apartment for weeks. It’s nothing special about his fear. I heard of this actor who was so terrified of being

buried alive that he always carried a hand written note in his pockets.

Please check that i am dead before burying me.

So he came up with the name as a preemptive strike. Hitting them off would likely do the trick, he thought.

Content with his strategy he could relax.

In his relaxed state he saw things differently.

He was funny that way.