You’re in a library and it’s huge. Thousands of books and comics cling to the walls, held up on dust-free clear plastic shelves. The air shimmers and tastes faintly of ozone and iodine. The shelves stretch to a distant vanishing point. You start moving forward. Tiny sparks dance around your feet with every step. You guess the floor can’t be marble after all.
Slowly the end of the room comes into focus. A smiling man is holding up two bundles of paper, one obviously much older than the other. You can’t make out the writing on either. Behind the man – a librarian, maybe? – there's a smiling woman sitting on a sofa that looks reasonably comfortable. A chamois leather decorated mannequin stands to the left, behind it the wall has been tastefully decorated with a collection of exquisite prints. There’s no cake anywhere.