I love books so much, I have been having trouble reading. Distractions in the meaning of happening upon any amount of material and the expectation of a stack. The way a shelf turns consciousness, the differentiations between numbers and letters used as symbol in a neat decimal system, slightly beyond just letters or numbers and never a meaning to themselves. A set to fall wherever, no suggestion or direction, incremental growths of understanding or the normative grouping process of the catalog. Z-library escapes, the missing out under-standard difference for measure: ecstatic dreams and horrible humane dilemma, narratives to catch parts missing, to relocate lost volumes or negatable interests, shelves of planed lettered numbers to strands between of correlative value and complexes of variable data. What size imagined us for measurements of information, here, the architecture of bending thought to potential. Random stands of difficulties and sudden loss of interest to frighten parts of fear and parts of boldness to test the usefulness or meaningfulness, but not get bogged down in how astounding and amazing and different and novel anything could be…