Unintended Direction...Again

In the stillness of a thousand books, the printer fires up. I know now why libraries are so quiet. The books consume the sound, the acoustics of the room hopelessly muffled by the bindings and hundreds of thousands of porous pages of pulped timber. The same effect is applied to moisture.
Thus, for every book dropped, every page turned, every chair slid, every key typed, every in-flu-enced cough or sneeze, every rustle of coats and backpacks, every whisper, every too-loud iPod, every barcode beep; for every beverage gulped and every cookie chewed, for every zipper undone, for every zipper redone, every scrap paper crumpled and every pencil thrown; I watch as soundwaves accost the endless shelves, efforting to tip the walls. Dreams of falling towers of flammable brick, ceasing years of silence and chokingly dry air, of ending a tyranny of technique and tuition, favoring instead an empire of euphony, of echo; such dreams are defeated as the rows stand fast against the assault, deadening the attackants and soaking up vibration. I watch constantly as the would-be sounds of seconds become the melody of mere moments in a dictatorship of diction while freequencies dance just outside through countless concrete corridors, uninhibited.

A work in without progress.