Trash writing

• A muted, gray autumn morning settles over the small-town library.\

Lionel jolted awake to a harsh blaring and managed to slam the sleep button on his childhood alarm clock by the second blare.

Five more minutes.

He let his mind slowly float its way to the surface as those blessed minutes ticked by. He felt both dread and a longing pull to start the day. If only he could jump directly from his dreams to the books in the library. When he braved his first peak at the day, a depressingly weak, cold light filtered through the gaps in his blinds.

Fitting.

The alarm blared again and he managed to silence it before its second honk and dragged himself out of his warm bed into the chilly air of the room. After his usual morning routine, he was out the door with a sandwich squashed into his leather satchel.

It was a brisk 15 minute walk from his home to the small town library where he worked. That morning was the first that the chill of autumn had begun to bite at his neck and nip through his sweater. He'd have to start layering up.

As he approached the squat, plain brick building with its large windows to let in natural light, he breathed a quiet sigh to sooth himself. There was already a patron waiting for him to unlock the doors. There was an agitated tenseness in her shoulders. Whether from irritation or excitement, he couldn't decide.

• -The librarian moves through his routines with ritualistic precision: unlocking doors, straightening displays, checking returns.\

  • Patrons drift in—eccentric, oblivious, needy in small ways. They ask for obscure books, complain about the temperature, ask him to fix the printer, chatter loudly.\

  • None of them mean harm, but each interaction chips at his quiet equilibrium.\

  • The library is his sanctuary, but people—ironically—are the price of admission.\

  • He longs for silence, order, and the company of books alone. Tone: gentle melancholy, introverted claustrophobia, the sense of a man living in the margins of his own life.\