In the silent stacks of forgotten hours, a dingo turns a page. Dust motes dance in sunbeams he no longer sees; the chime of a digital clock is just another rhythm in the prose. His world is parchment and ink-smell, the soft sigh of a binding opening like a distant country. Outside, centuries blur and stream past the window—a silent film of steel and glass. But here, in the eternal now of a good sentence, he is perfectly, completely lost. The last librarian of time itself, reading on as the library of the world slowly closes around him.