Willard doesn't really want to read. Or research, or even deal with words, really. He's come to the library on an errand of distraction, hoping to find something that could pull him outside of himself. He's tried a mystery novel about somebody's grandma, Proust, a fishing magazine, a treatise on something about aviation, a kid's book about penguins; nothing really works. Nothing tears him away from the reality he knows and was nearly consumed by.

It doesn't help that staccato noises - an almost-shout, a slam, a pointed flickering of pages - have been assaulting his mind. That a sound of muttering keeps him from forgetting about the world around. Impossible to distance himself when these invasive noises drag him right back down, leaving him all too aware of the way his skin crawls, the way his shoulders tense a little more with every sound.

After what feels like an eternity (but it's not, but time is never as slow or as fast as you think), Willard heads to the offending patron, placing his palms on the table.

"Hey, pal. Do you think you could keep it down?"

He doesn't know when he last slept. It's hard to sleep these days. Hard to make it more than two or three hours without dreams that leave him choking fog and damp air, feeling clasped tight by the sound of one immovable unerring voice. Doesn't know whether he'd changed clothes this morning or whether he's been wearing the same shirt for three days. It's hard to keep track, sometimes.