text: I roamed through the library shelves, yearning for Byron but coming up with Borges. As a Psychologist in waiting, it would’ve been proper to restrict my reading to those authors associated with mental disorders. However, I was feeling rebellious, so I added Borges’ *Labyrinths* to my stack of textbooks. Then through the hassle of the University’s library system and back along the lonely path to my dorm. Putting the books down on the sticky wooden desk it costs me $4000 a semester to use--and never mind the actual course fees--I prepared myself a student dinner- plain toast, Pringles, and coffee. Using my noise cancelling headphones to block out the rest of the dorm, I surfed YouTube while I ate. And when I’d finished, Freud, Pavlov, and Rogers occupied my evening until, blear eyed, I collapsed on my bed with the volume of stories. A plasticky little receipt fell onto my chest as I opened the cover. Out of curiosity, I picked it up to discover that one Andre Theodore had borrowed this book three years ago, along with *The Complete Works of Kafka* and *Paradise Lost*. I returned my attention to the book and saw that Andre, obviously a lit major, had annotated it. Tight, obfuscated prose covered the margins in a daemonic black block. And the phrase ‘lime green ex-Nazi wives’ was printed in block letters underneath the title card. Andre had been considerate enough as to not directly tamper with Borges’ prose, apart from the odd underline or asterisk, and it was all readable. But it was annoyingly readable, as if Andre was forcing me to make a choice between the text and his reflections on the text. I chose the text and immersed myself in the twisting sentences and labyrinthine facades of the story. \# I returned the Psych textbooks, along with the annotated Borges, to the library and began hunting for fresh fiction. Already familiar with Nabokov and Vonnegut, I wandered deeper into the library; stepping farther and farther back in time. A dull throb of Kafka turned me onto German Literature, and I perused through Goethe and Schiller unimpressed. The Germans write such stilted dialogue it’s a wonder they ever had a theatre scene. But a collection of Kafka looked good, so I picked that up; justifying it to myself as research for a thesis on abnormal personalities. But alas, when I returned to my dorm and started reading, I found poor Kafka had similarly been defaced. ‘Blue balled congressional seats’ printed underneath the title, and dense annotations all over the margins. This nonsensical scribbling on prober public books was no way for an academic to behave. I recalled the receipt from the other day and reasoned that if he had gotten Kafka and Borges, Milton would’ve been hit too. The fiend. Sure enough, when I’d dug out the library’s only copy of *Paradise Lost* from underneath the moth-eaten remains of Shakespeare, I found similar vandalism. ‘Orange brown sea puddles’ on the title and annotations in the margins. That’s three books defiled, now. And although I’m not particularly religious, there’s something heretical about covering Satan in obscene gibbering like that. And seeing what Andre had done to the poor defenceless books, I resolved to catch him. And strengthened by the relative boredom of a Tuesday night, I sat down with the three ruined books to investigate. I will gather every scrap of evidence about this book vandal I can and convey it to the proper library authorities so the proper legal proceedings can take place. \# Time, as is its prerogative, passed. I moved into the post-graduate stage of academia. No longer forking out for a squalid dorm but living large on a government stipend in a small apartment; student debt absorbed into a research scholarship. And keeping in the spirit of youthful rebellion turning midlife crises, I’d kept the vandalised books long since my library membership was revoked. It’s all online, anyway, and I can read my academic journals and science-fiction journals on the internet; I think I’m saying, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ or something like that. I’ve puzzled out the margin notes. In a spare room, I’d plastered photocopied pages onto the walls, one wall per book. A thing I’ve noticed in my studies--not studies, but perhaps devotions--is that the musings all fall within a familiar theme. First, a colour based declarative signals the tone of the writing. The Borges reflections, for example, were about an unnamed (perhaps unnameable) character with lapsed right-wing beliefs, jealous of another unnamed character who had wronged her. And the Kafka writings tell of a love unconsummated, maybe of a Political Philosophy Student Andre was friendly with. The only flaw of colour as a hermeneutical model is that orange does not easily associate with one emotion. Regardless, I understand Andre better. Like an author you loved as a child or a friend you grew up with, I found myself viewing the world through his perspective more often. When something happened in my research, I looked for a correlation in it in his writings. No longer was my search one of vengeance, but within these notes I believed that there lied some greater truth. More sublime than the sublime itself. A secret phrase buried in his prose that shall illuminate a new perspective on life more valuable than all philosophy; a power beyond life. And so I do my research and search for this phrase and keep myself to myself. \# More time passes. Quite a lot of it for me, but not that much all things considered. The years have fallen through my body like so much sand through an hourglass, carrying with them triumph and sadness and heartbreak quite unrelated to this narrative. And I find myself alone in a beeping ward, surrounded by machines. People come and say things to me I do not understand; and that doesn’t bother me. The only unsolved mystery in my life that really bothers me is the purpose behind your writing. Oh, did I just use a direct address there, my friend? My mind is going and the framing of my story along with it. I see you there, gilded phantasm, hovering over the edge of my bed. Do you know how long I’ve waited to talk to you? The agony that unresolved strain you created has burned into my head. Of course you do. There is no time, so hurry. What was the point? THE POINT? Of your writing. The scribbling. The torment and restlessness of it all. YOU FOOL, CAN’T YOU SEE YOU’VE DOOMED US BOTH? THAT THE ANSWER WAS THERE IN FRONT OF YOU ALL ALONG? THE SERET OF ABSOLUTE POWER. THE MEANING BEHIND THE CREATION OF THE UNIVERSE ALL SPELLED OUT FOR YOU IF ONLY YOU HAD THE BRAINS TO SEE IT! No, Teacher! I don’t. I can’t. Please show me, I need to understand! THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO NOW. THAT DOOR WAS CREATED FOR YOU ALONE, AND THE LOCK TURNS IN THE KEY, CASTING US TO A SHADOW EXISTANCE FOR THE REST OF TIME. No, wait. I can do better. Please don’t turn away from me. Don’t leave me here by myself. I’ll die. I will. Please help me, please. Please.