A letter found slipped beneath the shelves
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When I first entered the library, an event which occurred purely by happenstance, I was blown away. Such a vast repository of knowledge, all at the edge of one’s fingerprints. Were I thrown out, I would prostrate myself before the staff, begging and pledging loyalty, doing anything to be permitted back into this valhalla of research and wonder.

I began to feel indebted to the place, which served not only as both hearth and home to my wayward soul, but provided my starving mind with a feast to end all feasts. Feeling this I took it upon myself to help expand it.

With pride and expectations I put pen to paper.

Years later, and my pen has yet to leave it.

I have spent the last years of my life lurking between shelves lower-south-east 820-B and lower-south-east 821-C, far too scared to as much as peek my head out, huddled in between my copies of the Requine Addendums and a few Swedenborg volumes.

This state of affairs is slowly killing me, I think. Perhaps I ought to take the plunge and do it quickly.

To the library entirely, I apologize for my weakness.


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