A night of rain and blurred electric signs. The librarian closed the paperback he was reading in a dark cafe, and confessed his desires to nobody in particular. A man at a nearby table accused him of nostalgia, reminding him that what he desired had been available for years, and held up his tablet as proof. The librarian lit a cigarette, slowly shaking his head. A waiter shouted at the smoke. The librarian went out into the rain. Once again, he confessed to nobody in particular that he envied the criminal who wrote with his fingerprints and the blind who caressed the pages of each book in order to read it.