Sanctuary

There’s a peaceful almost humbling serenity about the Quiet Floor of the library, a citadel of nothingness perfumed with the dignified scent of aging yellowed paper.

There is a tyranny of silence here, thick as wool, at once indifferent and foreboding. Nothing makes a sound, save the lowly air exchanger and it is careful, pious, dutifully imperceptible. Even footfalls and rustling jacket seem muted, muffled, reverent.

It’s the only place I can think of on campus where people come in need of lacking. Less is more here, more is far too much, and none at all will do quite nicely if you please. None at all is what we’ll have and keep it coming, thank you.

Heads bowed, eyes open, fingers on keyboards make a chattering of mechanical teeth, a hundred ceremonies intersect and overlap, the cacophonous nothing of disparate unions.