He trudges through the library, crumpled bag from Robinson's. Someone purchased something last year, now, he has his belongings stuffed in it.
He has on a dark suit, even a hat, several weeks of dust, but the coat's buttoned and he's got a newspaper in his right hand - just like he bought it to read on the commute
to the suburbs.
He's not looking for books in here - he's looking for a space, a place, to put his time. He's looking for somewhere to be, maybe to fall asleep. But he can't do that here, and not even in the Children's Room
where he sometimes sits.
He's looking for a chair to call his own,
A ride that's not going anywhere, but which will take him home.