life, studies

the huge square shadow of the library spreads itself, a prolongation of a tightly packed cube of truth, resisting the plurality of the world, steadying itself against the slant of time, heaving like a lost ship, creaking like the wood in an ancient forest. a contemplative long-legged bird steps into the shadows, out of the brilliant annulling white light, as if it were entering its own grave.

inside, so many words unread or misunderstood. you can't explain. there they stand, isolated like the sleep of a child, atoms or fixed stars, decaying with the hands of the clock.

the upper rooms heavy with a thick, hushed silence, the neon lights mostly switched off, a few faulty ones still flickering, as if half-awake. i am handed a bunch of dazzling new keys that flash like a live fish in my hand. a double turn of the wrist and the dense steel lock clunks open, automatically, with an unmistakable certainty and resolve.

forefinger and thumb clench the chosen key so as to not forget. gestures of the hand this late in the day are like the dark badges of the mind. your eyes strain to pick out a number, match it with that on the scrap of unfolded paper in your other hand, the mind sifting for the right decimal place or for the vague recollection of the right order of the words. even here, the shadows, the slippage...

downstairs a bright glass cabinet holds a few obscure books, half open, spine upright. they're like trophies or the stuffed specimens of some mysterious animal. a lonely student is coiled over his notes, the words crazily spiraling, swirling in his confused mind-or so it appears that way from his disheveled look, the blank look on his face. where did it all go wrong?

next to the cabinet an empty-headed girl with thickly painted lips looks up at her friend, head tilted, cocked his way. she thinks dark thoughts of the life to come, thrilled that he might help her escape...

but still life, it's everywhere, has invaded the inner recesses of the soul; the iron in the blood, the iron in the books, that settled unfreedom, like blind lust that crashes down on us.

"look at your face," he said to her, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. but she only thought to herself: " you become slightly more unreal to me every day." the shadow of the word inheres, like the inner facet of a diamond, unable to make itself clear.