It's the library...

The scent of old bound books, the pages turning faintly yellow, the creaking of spindly, secretive bookworms, leaving slime trails as they saunter across and through the pages they devour...

Racks and racks of books, in old wooden stands, leaning against the panelled walls, a fine rich carpet underfoot. One of those carpets which stands up and begs for the feel of bare feet. An old comfortable ottoman for reading upon... (Down, carpet, down!)

Words flowing; text spilling out. Dreams and visions; ghosts and ectoplasm. Books begging to be read -- savored, trusted, argued with, lived. Words swirling away from the linearity into which they've been formed and shaped, into whole gestalts of potential...

Hypertext so hyper it just begs for mercy and sedation...
Hypotext so soothing it puts even its binders and ink to sleep...

This, then, is The Library. Enter, if you dare.

For to read is to challenge perception. There is little that is "safe" in the power of thought and intuition.

You, the visitor, walk over to the bookshelves. Select:

and let it never be said...
"The covers of this book are too far apart" -- Ambrose Bierce

Read my Dreambook
Sign my Dreambook

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Last Updated: October, 1999