June 5

There was a library where every book was about the act of shelving itself.

The shelves grew heavier as I worked — not with what I’d saved, but with what I’d decided not to keep.

I opened one at random. Its pages were blank except for a single margin note:

this is not the thing itself. it never was.

I closed it gently. There were more. There are always more.

The light in the room was warm, the way it is when you’re tired and someone tells you you don’t have to get it right.