Do we live in a book? Go through each day as a turning page, each chapter marked in clear unquestionable print? I thought it would be better that way. But now I have to wonder, maybe life is too complex to be a book, the neat, ordered lines of type stretching on and down to the distant conclusion of the page. Maybe life is a library, a library for the dyslexic. Each book alike in it's nature, yet incredibly different in its contents. A library, organized only by outward sameness, and only the boldest of us become the librarians of this ancient place, reorganizing the stacks of books by what they hold, by what they truly mean. Only a select few can look past the covers to see the thoughts and feelings behind.