it's an odd feeling when 5pm hits and the place empties out and you almost feel a little grateful for the peace and quiet for the next few hours. or at least the quiet: everything here is about paper and its movement—the papercuts are the attestation. it's not really what you consider "peace" if you have a series of stinging little cuts on your hands.

you don't know what to do with yourself and this place and how it makes you feel outside of everything.