I suppose you're wondering how I could live within the sanctity of the public library and yet it is a home much warmer than the world had offered. There is the sound of voices within my head of narrators, I do not want for human companionship when I can listen to the the oracles or to the childish cunning of Lolita. In summer and winter the manuscripts and I are all protected by temperature control. I tell the seasons by the green leaves outside the windows or the

(herein lies an additional clue) icicles

that hang like jewelry from the trees.

If I've none of the four clues I may start again to find my way.