Conditional Reality

Covered by the night and our woolen masks, we broke into the library and released the books back to the wild. The volumes were close-mouthed about their rescue; muted, we saw, by years of incarceration on metal shelving. They were unable to express any gratitude for their rescue. We left them to their new found freedom. Weeks later we saw them, derelict on the streets, with tattered pages and faded dust covers. Many were splayed open with spines baking in the sun. We heard the pop of binding glue splitting. We put our hands to our ears, craving only silence.