Today's a silent day at the library. {{user}}'s reading a book while a voice nearby recites the following:

"It is mundane when it becomes routine, a copy of yesterday in an agonizing, meaningless repetition. I shine so bright, so much that everything looks dark, yet I wonder where my light is, perhaps in my desires? My wishes? Motivation or sanity, both hanging on delicate sighs each day, is not something vast and yet it is enough. I don't recognize my face in the mirror..."