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This one collected these. It was Larydeilmo. Not the other one, not the shape in the darkness, Larydeilmo did it. Proof he says, caterwauling in the silence. It is proof that everyone else is mad. He is the only sane one. This one held onto himself when no one else said he could. See, he even remembers his own name. The others did not. Their notes scattered in between the pages of the dark, literary sea. It is his fate to find all of these. He knows he is supposed to read them. Larydeilmo is above the madness of Apocrypha.
* * *
Ink blood and paper skin. We are books. These things are known.
* * *
I heard it the other day. Taaraacil and Hilgot did not, but I heard it. I did. The gibbering. It is getting closer, I know it is. I will make them see it, I have to, before the wet slopping sound reaches us. Hearing it is the only way to stop it.
* * *
There was a book. I thought it was just beyond the next row of shelves, so I abandoned my group. Now I cannot seem to find the book or my friends. The shelves, they shift around me, moving at the corners of my eyes. I think something controls them, keeping me from finding my way. I looked at the shelves, but they were filled with ancient maps. Whatever keeps me trapped here possesses a wicked sense of humor. But I realized that by putting the boarders of the maps together, I can create a line, a guiding light in the dark halls of Apocrypha. I have bested you, shelf moving creature! I will find my way out of this section and back to the histories where I am supposed to be. Mark my words!
* * *
Minds not contained. Throatless voices. Hearts beating in chests of glass. Broken, torn, ripped away, yet still whole. Spill across the floor. Slipped into the sea and remained dry.
* * *
He chose me, you know. He does not keep anyone here who he does not want. I am favored. Blessed. Trusted to walk these shelves and keep them in his name. I can feel them, the tentacles growing beneath my skin. I just need to find a way to let them out. I am a seeker. Seeker of knowledge and seeker of interlopers. I will keep this place clean.
* * *
They will not stop whispering. The books. They are not loud, voices muffled by covers. But the voices, I hear them always. Talking. Telling me things. They lie. The books lie!