I…I just…why?
Why does the library contain such horrors? Such progeny of diseased minds?
This is what I ask myself each day, as I drag the rickety library trolley through the damp, oozing passages of what is now my prison. My home.
I have not seen daylight for years. The library caverns are seemingly endless, and lit only by flickering torchlight.
Such a situation would perhaps be made easier to bear if I was blessed with diverting reading material, but this tripe is all I ever seem to come across.
How can that be, when the library is infinite, containing all that has ever been committed to paper?
I must either conclude that the majority of what has been written in the universe is inane and puerile, or that I have been purposely set to work in a sector of the library containing nothing but this kind of material.
Knowing the oogazoids as I do, the latter would not surprise me. They possess a peculiarly obscure sense of humour, but a sense of humour nonetheless.
But I must cut this missive short, one of the oogazoids has noticed my scribbling and is now quivering his mandibles at me in a threatening manner.
I will be able to smuggle out more material in a few days.
Until then, God help us all.
The Librarian.
The Oogazoid Library 