<hr/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong>Addicted to that old Book Smell</strong></span></div><hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/DcLnexj.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Wyatt Gallo<br/><strong>Sortment:</strong>Postgrad<br/><strong>Date and Time:</strong>October 4, 10:00 p.m.<br/><strong>Location: </strong>2nd floor stacks<br/><strong>Mood:</strong>Getting over recent social ineptness by doing what he does best, research<br/><strong>Tag:</strong>Wil Holmes<em><strong> [closed]</strong></em><hr/><br/>The library at JCPU elicited mixed feelings from Wyatt. It was a library full of books, which were so much easier to interact with than regular people. But it was also very modern, full of convenience and vivid movement. For him, back and at home and at the university where he got his undergrad, libraries were clinical and quiet - perhaps just the tad bit chilly. And Wyatt had come to expect and rely on the sharp corners and emptiness.<br/><br/>Luckily for him the research wing was on the second floor in a less glamorous corner. He set his worn leather satchel down at one of the back tables near a window and went to look up a periodical he needed for a upcoming paper. He probably could have downloaded it online, that was in fact how he had looked it up back at his apartment before coming over, but that wasn't the point really. There was a ritual and a process that made writing such a joy for him. it was the closest thing he really had to the hunt. Finding that one obscure article millions of bindings was a small thrill, but one he enjoyed none the less.<br/><br/>He pulled a crumpled sticky note from his pocket and began to stroll down the isles towards where the English Literature periodicals could be. He needed Volume three, Issue six of the<acronym title="European Journal of English Language and Literature Studies">EJELLS</acronym>. It had an interesting article about vulnerability in writing. Something he had found recently to be a tricky subject indeed. Wyatt let his fingers trail along the spines of the books as he walked down the aisle, settling on the collection he needed.