You return to the public library where you first read about the Gospel. You need context. History. A reference to prove this madness has a source.
The library is still in its old location.
But when you step inside, it isn't.
The architecture folds wrong. Corridors lean like drunken paragraphs. The shelves rearrange themselves mid-glance. Dewey Decimal numbers are replaced by timestamps from your life.
2:47 AM — You Thought About Ending It5:06 PM — You Almost Forgot Her Name10:22 AM — You Lied During Therapy
There are no librarians now.
Only archivists with faces blurred into footnotes. They whisper citations you've never written. One offers you a card catalog slip. You read it:
"See: Yourself, Annotated."
The air thickens like old glue.
The spines of the books ache when you touch them.
And from behind Reference Section M-Z, you hear someone humming the melody of your first panic attack.
You run.
But the exit sign now reads:
"To Be Continued."
You try redacting it.
