in the library on the second floor, surrounded by a labyrinth of clustered dell computers that look like snowflake fractals from the ceiling's eyes. during the day not one computer is left unattended, the area filled with the colllective clickity-clackity clattering of keyboard keys and mouse clicks, but at this ungodly hour the slow 55 word per minute taps of one individual are discernible enough to vaguely gauge the shaky typist's

BULLSHIT.