In subterranean corridors, the library breathes in semi-darkness, the words fold themselves so they won’t be born, like closed walnut shells, among columns of lead they writhe, searching for a breath, and it holds them back until a reader comes to call them. When you open a page, the light breaks their folds, a syllable lengthens, the voice takes shape among the characters, something is born that made no sound, but walks along the edge of the sheet, and the subterranean corridors recognize in you that first reader.