There are countries where libraries are enormous and magnificent edifices: palaces of memory, fortresses of knowledge, labyrinths similar to our brains and minds. There are countries where there are no libraries at all – there is no reason to build them since there are no books, while songs and tales can be stored in one's head. This country is a country which itself is a library. And this library itself is a book. And this book itself is a library. And this library itself is a book. And this book itself is a library. And so on . . . . . . So, is there any good reason to have here an extra library? An independent, separate library? A hardly visible book collection? A collection of books hardly visible? Because just being build? Because just being written? Because in progress? In plans? In dreams? Because being just an idea? Ssome ideas scattered all around? Chaos in spite of ceaseless attempts to put everything in order. Because always in constant blossoming and growing. In constant transforming. In endless decaying and rotting. In restless withering and wilting. In unnoticeable yellowing of old paper . . . . . . . . It's hard to say what was the reason of placing here this signboard: absent-mindedness? joke? kidding? malice? wish to enhance the entanglement? mistake? chance? accident? Or it has been forgotten. Just left. And it is. Now you are here – you are in the library where there are no books. You can borrow nothing. Would you like to borrow anything? Suddenly you have realised you have nothing you can read. No reading. It's strange, isn't it? You are in the book and you have nothing to read. This can happen. Different things can happen. . . . . . . Imagine you have just borrowed two books – it is as if you have just borrowed two letters or two words from a book. And somebody else has just borrowed three other letters or three other words. And somebody more else has just taken one word home. And so on. Then somebody comes and wants to borrow this book, just the one you and other guys have borrowed so many various signs and words from. What would he take home? A novel-sieve? A novel-fence? Or a novel-tree – words-leaves on sentences-branches – and among them colourful birds and trembling air apparently smelling nicely and undoubtedly shining . . . . . you can take or borrow a dried leaf – and a dried twig too – you can heat with them a stove – there are increadibly lot of chances that new twigs and new leaves will appear . . . . . So, if you are here, then come in >>>