he wanders the aisles of the library with little direction , no real method to his madness . some say don’t judge books by their covers , yet lucien does ; eyes scan for something that catches his eye , something warn and likely dark in color —— he’s hoping for something moody . he usually is . he still makes time to read , to consume texts like a fire , even now that he was trying to write more ( now that he had found purpose ) . fire’s must be fed to create light . he turns another corner and finds himself looking at someone familiar . it takes a second for the recognition to occur , the nights the notions found themselves at bisou as marred by a certain haze as they are considered productive by the group members . ‘ vonnegut , right ? ’ he asks , searching for confirmation . @scnctified
