I stand at the western wall of the library, facing the single door through which the workers enter in the hours before the public enters. They leave through here at night, I hear them chattering as they click the switches that leave us all, me and the dead poets, writers and historians in semi-darkness.

If I hold four letters that spell out my intentions I may leave.

If not, I will ramble throught the passages between the knowledge until I find the key.