The two employees of the National Archives looked down at the avenue stretching before them, a straight mile or so, at the feet and wheels cutting it at right angles. They were smoking, small-talking. Their eyes suddenly caught a young man with a light-blue briefcase (A student! A scholar!) walking up the avenue in between the manicured hedges and the neatly parked vehicles; he looked up – they looked away, and kept small talking, hiding from each other and him the hope that the light-blue briefcase would reveal a soul interested in archives, so surprising when they had people come in, so annihilating when the dusty shelves stood untouched – no metaphor – for days on end. The young man stopped, opened his briefcase (A folder? Some files?) walked on a bit, reached the steps leading to the massive columns of the National Archives building and sat down (A book! He’s reading! Wonderful sunny day, huh?) Last puff, cigarettes down, backs to the avenue, flags on their poles swinging in the glass doors gently closing.

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