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.
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