The Library was cold, no worries, we’re told,
Sneak books & hold, under white, pointed robes,
Burn all that comes, from a land, of foreign Suns.
When I was a kid, it disturbed me to have my portal into other worlds and minds, tarnished by people having meetings in there in tucked away rooms. The world was already filled with places where people meet to talk to each other. So, why inject something like that into a palace of stored stories and information? I can’t imagine going through what’s happening up in Toronto.