I sneezed as I held my tiny slip of paper.
I climbed stairs and wound through halls.
PQ, PS, looking for a specific journal.
The smell of real books was all around.
Forcing me to breathe differently from glowing articles.
I had to use the cranks for the first time.
Twenty feet of rolling stacks.
Putting all my weight into turning them.
Manipulating literal tons of books with my shoulders.
I must have looked a mess.
Suddenly, I had managed to create a small cave.
There was space for me in with those journals.
I squeezed my body into PR, and stood in the dark.
Suddenly, I thought of all those lowly GAs.
Just like me who'd been trapped in those stacks.
Just like me, they'd wedged themselves in.
Just like me, they'd been so relieved to clear space.
Just enough to breathe and read by the fluorescent crevice.
Just like the others, I had not looked before I cranked.
At any moment, someone in PN could see their chance.
Catch a bit of momentum, ride the big, black, plastic wheel.
And forever I'd be trapped in real pitch with PR.