"My gracious goodness, girl! We've nailed down the marker to a T! One thousand miles and we arrive," exclaims a spiffily suited fellow, a small figure in tow behind by a heartfelt bond of hands. Situated squarely atop a boxy backpack strapped to her shoulders is a fancifully crafted barometer-thermometer-hygrometer device. It works away with a silent intensity, providing a quality of guidance to the familiar pair.

Fixated on the Library's floor - interrupting the flow of shelves - before them is a colossal, efficiently arranged artifact bleeding a bountiful airglow onto every surface in the vicinity - one of brilliant blue, green, red and exceptional UV purple, scaling as each uniquely shaded wave ascends into the perceptibly infinite ceiling.

The foundational structure is a pair of upraised palms akin to the enlightening extremities of Athene. These uplift and maintain a gyrating, generously etched icosahedron keenly cascading the tides of airglow down, around, up and away.

The gracious hands are mahogany. The geometric instrument of wonderment composed of kaleidoscopically combining fractals of copper.

Encircling this spectacle are the fearsome Docents - six to each side, unwavering in supporting the security of their designated angle. Their lanterns flicker, but no flame - not of candlelight nor of spirit - will find rest.

At the apex of the eternally erected structure sits a singular, sober Archivist, posed at a table consisting of iridescent, multifaceted mirrors.

"It radiates splendorous vibrancy of the self, doesn't it, dear?" speaks the man, gesturing with a certainly invigorated attitude at the sight of their well-met destination. He looks back, crouching beside the aisle's book-stacked tower and coaxing his tiny companion to observe the entirety of glory in this momentous viewing. "You can feel it - same as I! The atmosphere is… teeming. It's fuller here, so close to the source! A source so splendid. Our every hour, you'll find, is supported by these pieces of the fathomless puzzle. One every thousandth mile."

He plucks a spyglass from his pocket and points it fondly at the scene ahead.

"Within that geometric beauty is a genesis. A facet of creation itself. The wealth of worldmaking - embodied in an articulated shell for the benefit of our multiverse."

"It… makes life?" asks the girl in a small, baffled voice, posing her intrigue unto the soothing atmosphere of dense delight.

He chuckles. "In the sense of exceedingly planetary measures, it is what promotes and persists life. This-" he points prominently to the icosahedron. "gives us breath. The Library cultivates the minds of the worthy masses from all manner of worlds, dimensions, universes! We each, each species, have a differing atmospheric need. My theory? This outstanding, animated shape knows us and our necessities for continual, flourishing health by means of the Archivist. They bestow us with… guided clouds to fill our lungs for the eons we may spend absorbing the ecstasy of information. This is a paradise, daughter. We are blessed by the oversight of the Librarians… and whatever overarching conscious may persist and generously instill certainty in our evolution of self."

He eases himself onto the sleek, lengthily spanning surface that the Wanderers daily tread. "Remember our virtues, yes, sweetness?"

The girl nods. "The Archivists, though eyeless, see and I should be the best me.

"The Pages climb and bestow us illumination sublime, owing them the utmost respects for all time.

"The Docents are a dire reminder - never behave as you shouldn't, lest you are cocooned in the crucible of silent pyre."

"Good lass!" the fellow exclaims, ruffling her joyous red locks. "Now, why don't we set up our picnic and revel in the moment, hm?"

"Yes sir!"

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