Libraries, you have learned, are full of paper.
It's for this reason you come today, despite your general aversion to man-made structures and their interiors. The Atheneum is a particularly egregious example: nothing grows in here, and if it so much as tries it is immediately squashed and scrubbed by overeager librarians. It's a pity, because there's so much to learn from the things that live, but the human-animals are a fiercely territorial sort, you've learned.
Anyway. After uneasily making your way into the Atheneum and claiming a table near a wide, bright window, you settle down into your true purpose here: drawing. Specifically, sketching out a custom that you are well aware of, but that you've realized many people here know next to nothing about.
A few hours pass this way, by which time you've filled four pages with surprisingly detailed illustrations and covered your fingers and face with smudges of charcoal. Now you are halfway through your sixth image, a sketch of people with baskets full of sunlight offering them up to the sky. Your tongue is clenched between your lips; your brows are furrowed in concentration; you're squatting indelicately on your seat, bare feet tucked beneath you.
In short you look ridiculous, but hey- you're too caught up in your own little world to notice if anyone has come to judge.
