Endless libraries, corridors of books whose vanishing lines dissolve into the volumes themselves. Tomes that no machine can count, pages that no algorithm can fathom.
Troubled libraries, books that don’t fit on pre-established shelves, bindings that no hands have ever touched.
And inside those books, more books, more living matter, grey matter, green matter, roots going down into the floors below, flowering in ways that nature can’t begin to comprehend. Or apprehend. Words seeking paragraphs, leaves in need of quires, pages in search of enclosures.
And the readers, nowhere to be found. Only the dissipated dream of the mad librarian drawing to herself the wisdom and folly of past millenia, pages flipping backwards, Sibilline fragments pushed into the wind with the force of Titans, prophecies abused and disabused, lived and relived, failed and renewed, that nobody ever believed against the evidence of their irrefutable truth.
A carnival of burnt parchment, scorched skin encasing the flaming heart of a great fire setting the edges alight with gilding and lead tetroxyde, the palpable pain of the page in distress, abandoned and recovered, gathering dust in a silver casket.
Clichés in the making, hackneyed phrases in vogue, shortcuts of memory and abbreviated injuries burying desire under the weight of history.
And in the middle of it all, humble and loose, the eternal uttering of the perrenial scribe, the unfulfilled quill of a million words that the world is not yet ready to hear. You are there, and so am I.
biblonia 
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