My duties at Miskatonic University have recently led me to the western shores of America, in pursuit of certain... archaeological information of some minor significance to obscure members of the academic community.

As such, I have taken up lodging at a local boarding house operated by a nearby academic institution. I have come to regret that decision somewhat, as I can only presume that said academic institution was founded by hippies, for hippies.  Or cultists of Dagon.  I haven't yet reached a definite conclusion.
 


Now, I have no particular quarrel with hippies (or Dagon cultists, for that matter, provided they aren't trying to do anything unnatural).  I like to consider myself a generally tolerant fellow, with certain Libertarian tendencies, even.  So if you want to spend every night getting high as a kite out in the woods, well... that's none of my business. And I'm all for peace, love, and nonviolence.  Commendable ideals.

It's the aversion to soap and water that I take issue with, particularly when living in rather close quarters.

But I digress, lest this devolve into a diatribe on the state of modern youth and their loud music.  Suffice it to say that my apartment is not conducive to concentration, or to quiet reading.

Thus, I went afield in search of a more comfortable location in which I might be able to actually hear myself think.


I must admit, I have come to somewhat miss the swaying gambrel roofs of my native Arkham. The architecture here is... alien to say the least.


And the hallowed halls of learning are scrawled with graffiti. 


Plus, all the doors have these ominous little red sensors.


But eventually, I found my way through the maze of steel and concrete to the depths of the lowest basement of library, where I came upon this quiet refuge.


Many a long night have I spent in the Special Collections back at dear ole' Miskatonic, listening to the soft rustle of the books as they stir slowly in the light of Aldebaran.


To the left, there was some very nice tea set out, complements of the Archivist.


To the right: "Free gumball with purchase of poetry."
My gumball was stale, but the poem was rather nice.  Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced the slip of paper it was printed on.



The air was quiet and still as I unpacked my bags and got to work.  I got in several hours of productive work before I was politely informed that the library was closing shortly and that I would have to leave. [At 5 o'clock, no less.  Blasted summer hours!]