The Library! (Thursday)

On Thursday, a book makes itself known to me in a dream. It introduces itself as THE TREASURY OF HERETOFORE UNKNOWABLE THINGS, FOR IMMEDIATE CONSUMPTION AND HASTY REFUTATION.
"Wake up," it says.
So i do , stricken suddenly with a general impression of where to find it in the Backward Stacks. Or are the stacks forward?
I'm not so sure... The Library has a way of confusing things...
For example: the SAD ENCYCLOPEDIAS are in the Happy Corridor, which also houses the MISERY CHRONICLES, which themselves are part of THE SERIES OF IMPOSSIBLE JOY.
(THE MIRTH FILES, it should be noted, have been lost for ages.)
This is all to say that it's usually very diffficult amid this latticework of convergences... But there it is. The book.
Once open, its pages begin to speak; the beg to be turned.
They warn of the tyranny of dog-earring and the agony of being wide-spread.
So i turn carefully, of course, not wanting to invite the ire of certain tomes and thier henchman.
The book speaks of many things... Of large containers in heavens...
Systems of idea-constrution and the ruthless (but nessary) diassembly of emhemera.
It blows winds from bird gangs back through the stacks and carrel-corrals.
The pages are alive. They show a man who's gouged out his own eyes with his thumbs as so not to read certain passages from a book of childern's stories.
His daughters dance around him, singing familiar, playful songs.
"Pocktes full of posies! Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down." They sing.
The pages are places. The places are chapters in a book. And what is a library if not manifestation of its cloisteres stories?.
"It's me." the man who gouged out his eyes says.
" I recognize you." i reply.
"Do you want to know why i did it? Why i took out my eyes?"
"The book." i answered.
"No, no. Not THE book. ALL books!" he starts. "There are so mant words...So many sngles from which to view a fact. One million little insects-all with thier own names. Genus and species and surnames and pseudonym and the names spoken by the flap-flap-flapping of thier little insect wings. Three lovers my brain refuses to forget. One whom i run into weekly at the grocery store... An infinity of ways my little might die tragically: The approaching school bus, some airbrne virus, the pervert lurking in his van across from the swingset...How am i supposed to make sense of it all? How do i put it all together?!"
I'm almost sure it's impossbile (his eues having been removed from thier housing), but i believe i witness the man begin to weep.
"The bugs...I don't want to see anymore." he says, "But it's all there, right in front of me. Burned into my brain, filling my ears. There's no escaping it."
And with that, he returns to his childern, slumped under the wieght of some new, unbearable knowledge.
They dance in circles that go on forever.
This is just one of many books in the Library.
Each one tells a different story, which is but an echo of the same story, writ over and over across infinite volumes.
A man sacrificed at Gologtha.
A prince metamorphosed into a hideous beast.
Art made alive..
A father beset by the maddening noise of the world.
People and places, which are chapters in a book. And what is a library if not the sum total of its innumerable stories?

I pray i have the time to read them all...Tomorrow i will learn about insects.

TO BE CONTINUED.