As I sit on one of the austere wrought iron benches that conveniently trace out the edges of the Norlin back entrance, I light a camel filter hoping it will stimulate the funeral paced clock that ticks out my library induced purgatory. My jeans offer only meager resistance to the cold which seeps out of the metallic black bars holding me off the floor.
A modest congregation of fellow smokers indiscriminately splays out around me, and we share the quiescent moment anti-climactically sucking our lives away through a cotton filter. The overwhelming majority of my unnamed compatriots are men. We pass the time by staring at the ground saying absolutely nothing to each other. I can only assume that we are too engrossed in our thoughts of titties and beer to formulate needless conversation.
Long periods of silence are punctuated only by a hacking cough that emanates from a bespectacled young man's throat and reverberates off the colossal back wall, journeying out into the star obstructing cloud coverage of the late night sky.
Another demure inspection of the ground reveals that the interlocking tile resembles a beach front invasion. Discarded cigarette butts, which by now look like the tattered corpses strewn across Omaha Beach, lay heedlessly wherever they have fallen.
Immediately to my right, revolving glass doors stand sentinel at the entrance, separating the catacombs of knowledge inside from the brisk night air.
A rosy cheeked young woman appears on the scene, freshening the testosterone laden air as she walks pointedly to the entrance. Her delicate footfalls radiate out and follow benignly behind our bespectacled friend's dry cough.
Our feminine visitor's presence is cut short as she overcomes the rotating glass door's stagnant inertia and recedes into the building.
At this point I am forced to follow her lead, and I take one fleeting glance at the desolation around me before heading inside to swallow another hefty work load.
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