Welcome. Read with caution.
Has nobody else seen the hole? It's somewhere past Wing Seven, I'm not exactly sure where.
I've asked some of the librarians, a few curators, even the front desk; none claim to know what I'm talking about.
A hole of immeasurable depth, with sludges of wet paper swirling about in a pool of ink. A hole smothered with black, with hints of red and blue, doused in a sharp burning scent. A hole where, if you look hard enough, you'll see some semblance of language: names, random phrases, even complete paragraphs. Occasionally, leather and hardback covers may bob up above the surface, then plunge back down into the gooey liquid.
However, most glaringly, are the deep groans that overlap each other in increasing volume, just so they may be heard.
The names of old notebooks, belonging to students and workers alike. The names of libraries which, after some short research, have apparently burned down or been closed for years. The names of authors who have disappeared or passed away, both from the Library and outside of it.
I'm going back home. I need to go get my old books. I recommend you do the same.