Where else would she put all these things, but in books? Where else could she lock away all of her emotion, but in the place where all of life’s joy and delight were to be found? And as she created these books, these special books, born in the nowhere and everywhere, each one created from her memories and emotions, from the fragments of her reality, she threw them out into the world, propelling them away from her, scattering them throughout reality and time, their pages full of languages old and new, known and unknown, images and words, the language of everywhere.
Oh my gosh it was her all along
