You’re in a library and it’s huge. Thousands of books and comics cling to the
walls, held up on dust-free clear plastic shelves. The air shimmers and tastes faintly of ozone
and iodine. The shelves stretch to a
distant vanishing point. You start moving forward. Tiny sparks dance around
your feet with every step. You guess the
floor can’t be marble after all.
Slowly the end of the room comes into focus. A smiling man is holding up two bundles of
paper, one obviously much older than the other.
You can’t make out the writing on either. Behind the man – a librarian, maybe? – there's a smiling woman
sitting on a sofa that looks reasonably comfortable. A chamois leather
decorated mannequin stands to the left, behind it the
wall has been tastefully decorated with a collection of exquisite prints.
There’s no cake anywhere.
Do you:
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