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  The dust in the air is revealed with the shine of the sunrise through the windows, speckling the insides of the building so peacefully as to make one forget about the outside world, all material concerns slipping away into the breeze. A decently sized library, rows upon rows of bookshelves circling around a common area of benches sloping downwards, where the community so often meets to make decisions. But most of the time, it lies empty as it does now, dust settling, save for the sole worker's shifting around and adding of books to the ever-expanding catalogue. Perhaps some parusement would be of your interest, although the books are usually of a more personal origin for their caretaker.
  The books breathe, the textured fabric of the covers beating the gentle pulse of the heartbeat. Paper breathes in, paper breathes out. Stories and writings live within every living and unliving thing. String binds as bone binds as roots bind as relationships bind, pulling stories together, into one harmonious collective organism. Kindness is a ritual as old as time, healing a rite everything performs on every single thing, including the self. All things come from the earth, and all things return to it. The stories are not forgotten, even as the papers slowly rot. The organs, the body, the ink-blood of the book may die, and return to the land under our feet, but we will never forget it.

Catalogue:
Organise, Attack, Take Back
Partly Poetry
Random Ramblings
The Zapatista Exo-Introspective
Coming soon...
Social Relations and Social Cults