Passion is dimmed and the room is good for loneliness. Unread books sit on the shelf keeping close to each other like little birds on a cold day. But their closeness is just physical. Each one is full of its own wisdom and emotion and there is no sharing. They are lined up in no particular pattern but any pattern would be just as good as randomness. They forgot what it feels like to be open. It has been too long.
It is dark and quiet. The room looks like it knows something but won't tell. Strangely, now is not the time for solving mysteries even though the setting feels perfect. Why solve mysteries, anyway? When unsolved, they balance out the unread books.
Being disengaged is the best part of it all. The walls give plenty to look at. They are fascinating in their immobility and lack of expression. They are nothing. Staring at nothing is better than trying to make believe.
Time goes by unnoticed. They say it flies when you are having fun. But flying is too busy of an act. So is crawling. When does it happen that time crosses a vacuum without disturbing it by any motion at all? And then you suddenly find yourself at the opposite end. That's when it's time to say good night.
Good night quiet room, good night books, good night walls, good night mysteries. I will make sure to stay meaninglessly busy tomorrow to kill time until I can return to you. I will even talk to people. Talk as if I have read the books. But later when the night falls I will tiptoe back here to let you in.
To let myself out.