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@acuityfeed
With that spinning Spiral of the multitude of Eyes and Mouths and murmuring sounds what glean close to nameless gibbering, Roland the Poet, the Scholar, the ever-winding strain of innocent Curiosity and the Soothe, picks a piece of those not-books from one of their not-shelves, and flicks the unpages to find the Words in a heinous scrawl so similar to the Common Tongue; yet, beautifully dissimilar, and bound enough to hath Roland impossibly beaming.
"Art thou so sure?" inquires he, as he flips pages and runs the tips of his fingers to catch that shadow of the fading ink; to think of polite circumstances, of a hunched-o'er Form what hast written down these very Words. "The limitless Beings beyond our capacity for Mortal and neigh comprehensible Thought art above our own heads, and buried amidst the black ground, and perchance Sheogorath hast something of a cackling Cue to mix this sect of Pen and Quill." And, finding his fill for Understanding, Roland places this book back upon its sacred shelf, and looks again for another.
"Perchance a whittl'ng of Dyus at the behest of low-voiced Jyggalag, in interwoven snatchings from the backrooms of Herma-Mora. Wouldst ever they conglomerate?" asks he, sudden and wondering in this stretch of a New Thought. "Hast they, I inquire?"