Over his lifetime a man collected books and built a library. The books became places onto which he attached ideas and thoughts; as the years went by layer by layer these ideas and thoughts created patterns, stories, histories of thought.

When the man died, his library was dissolved, his books dispersed. Some found a way into other libraries, some went into the bin. In fact, the library dissolved like the man's body, his organs and cells disintegrating till they found a new home in other beings or in the soil.

Honour a library. It's not the books, the material carriers, that count. It's the layers of invisibility that matter. Everything real cannot be seen nor touched.