One of my superiors.

One of my superiors came to visit me today. They don't know what to make of me, my superiors. They think I have no ambition. Or that I am a little lost in my head. But my ambition reaches far and deep into the world. And what may seem to be an outward indifference to my surroundings is in fact a dedicated concentration. I can only thank them, thank them that they have given me this opportunity, the opportunity to fulfill myself under the most satisfying circumstances. I thank them for my silence, my dim little desk, and for all of the people that mill about here in their own desperate ways. I thank them for the glimpse of this peculiar arboretum, this aviary where everyone is such a distance from each other.

They don't plan to hire anyone else on, so it is me now alone for good in the filming room of the Great Hall of Records. The machines that move the air start to work, like an army approaching. I feel as though I have walked into a spider's web, the way they are complimenting me. After all their praises are sung, I'm still here in the dark, waiting for the next request. My superior has gone. I sit very still and think about the permanence of situations. Or I should say, the impermanence. It would be the easiest thing in the world to stand up and walk out of here, through the bright lobby full of mid-morning sun casting long shadows from the pillars, out beneath the giant seal, an eagle bearing a scroll in its talons, LITTERA SCRIPTA MANET. Yes, the spoken word dies. Quite impermanent. As all of these seconds falling away from me while I sit here, earning my way in the world. But I must keep in mind that I am not an exception, that men must work throughout their whole lives, and that this work, in all the various forms it presents itself, is a necessary and fathomless universe, a counter-balance to the manic flight of my dreams. One cannot live always above this world, one must dig very deeply into it. One must suffer the pressures of a prolonged descent, if one is to know what it is to be acclimated to your correct environment.

I stand up from my desk, the little area about me is illuminated by a golden desk lamp covered by a green plastic shade. A golden green encircles each occupied desk, and these are the only sources of light in this wing of the Great Hall. They are placed here and there, in a slight geometric splattering. I peer down the long corridor, thick with shadows and slight sounds of activity, rustling papers, a cupped hand over a whispering mouth, the incessant hum coming from the vents. Here and there the heads of other workers and researchers float above pools of dark shadows, encircled by the glow of their lanterns, the color of sea-water. As they stoop their heads to examine whatever odd documents lay in front of them, they bob like jellyfish in an opaque current. The length of the room stretches into a complete darkness. The small pockets of viridian light, scattershot snowflakes falling from a shrouded moonless sky. Or more exactly, incandescent fish, fish that know few common words, in an absent-minded or indifferent master's aquarium.