It is quiet in the library. I cannot hear a sound here except for the beating of my heart, the incessant whooshing of my lungs, and the thousand other burbling, squishing noises my body is in the constant habit of assaulting me with. It is a hell I carry with me, a pandemonium I cannot escape.
The books here are all written from left to write in a script I do not know, but they are infinite. There is no end to the shelves and hallways. What a torment! If only I could read, or learn to read, in this accursed eternity. But no, I am surrounded by knowledge I cannot hope to taste, and all I have is myself.
Tale Told 