Within a Sky Full of Earth

This is the expression of our disaster. It's still hard to tell. Could be like every vanished book would resemble the weight of an imaginary being that lost its own life. Do books die? They don't, but for sure they stop whispering. They stop being there, watching us and keeping us safe. It's painful to count them. To write their names on our list of casualties. I was there and I know it.
Bloom started slowly, with a few books. As we were selling them and sending them to other homes we were buying more. More and more. Until there wouldn't be more space. The exquisite space of Bloom Red was crowded with books, like a train on the rush hour. They squeezed themselves up and down. Shouting to each others. Telling their own stories. Puhskin's The Queen of Spades was always getting a voice on Dostoievsky's The Gambler. Or On the Road drifting some other tale to tell to Marguerite Duras' The Sailor from Gibraltar. On the Sea!
Fuck! It's hard to breathe now. They were all gone!
THIS EVENING WE LEFT THE LIGHT OF THE LOGO AT OUR DOOR ON. IT MEANS THAT WE'RE STILL THERE. WE STILL HAVE A LIGHT AT THE BEGINNING OF SOMETHING ELSE! LIKE A CANDLE IT GIVES US HOPE...