The hallways passed by in a cool stillness, met only by the rhythmic tapping of feet as Dorothy walked, guided by George Lewiston, toward the last door on the left. The air was stale, as if this place hadn't seen a soul for nearly a decade, outside of the hushed tones of congregants, conspirators, or crackheads. She felt like one, or maybe all three…

It is quiet. Dorothy's backpack slumps against the leg of an old wooden table, as she slumps in a chair equally as old. Surrounding her are shelves of books, each with a little white sticker and hand-written dewey decimal numbers. It's quiet, except for the steady pitter patter of rain outside. It's quiet because this is the library that Dorothy works at, and it's quiet because nobody else is around…

The lights flash and strobe to the rhythm of the bass guitar, synths whining in minor key, and the dystopian vocals enrapture the crowd whose bodies move with the lights, and the heat. Leather, lace, spiked and colored hair, makeup, and studs. Cigarette smoke filters the oxygen out of the air, and the haze is lit by the multi-colored lights interrupting the darkness…