Seclusion bench and walls, facing the front. NO eating or drinking in the library. Eight minutes to go. A piece is broken. It reveals the stupid innards. Fused splinters and a nail. Six minutes to go. Someone is helping to support the shelf with wads of gum. Free hardware. Four minutes to go. Rows and rows and rows and rows of lights above. The roof should lift off soon. Two minutes to go. No one is looking at the books. The walls and pillars are stone and rough. It feels like a medieval castle. Books too. Time to go. Don't worry, I'll be back.

Early. All done, half an hour to spare. I'm facing away now, but still secluded. The chair creaks when I move. Then pen is squishy. I bought a new one, but I'm not using it yet. It's red. This one is black. Same brand, same style, different color. That's all. The gum is on the right side, but not on the left. The left must be stronger by itself? Or maybe it's just abandoned. It's hard to tell until it falls apart. Of course, all will be clear in retrospect. Is it really as strong as it appears? Is the gum supporting the right, or is it weighing it down? Does it make any difference at all? Half an hour to go.

Sitting here is a tiny crumpled piece of paper. It's the size of a pea. I restore it. It seems to be part of a spiral-ringed notebook page. The page was torn out, but this was left behind, crumpled into a pea-sized ball and tossed into the corner. I restore it, and it kind of resembles a man dancing. He is free.

The food is gone. No hotdogs will be sold today. The cafeteria is sealed, and the girl waits for the last one to leave. Seems I was late. My stomach doesn't growl. I had lunch. But just because I had a lunch, can one assume that I am full? It isn't true.

The buses are free. They move quickly. I'll see green again soon. I guess the routes on Tuesdays and Thursdays are different than other days, and today is a Tuesday. I'll be later. But the website didn't say the routes were different. No one said it. Yet they never go to my stop on these days. The street is right there, but they turn away and I watch my stop drift off to blue. We'll come around later and I'll come out on the other side of the street. That must be my stop, too.

Actually, I haven't left yet. I'm still at the seclusion bench. Fifteen minutes to go. My pen is still squishy. The dancing man is still here. He dances for me. Even though a breeze could blow him away, he doesn't hide. He stays and he dances. We are secluded, together. But soon I will have to leave him. There are ten minutes to go.

I'd better leave now. I don't want to be late.