A library where certain books have no spines, no titles, and when you try to open them they dissolve into static or simply refuse to have pages. A figure stands before these impossible books, reaching for them again and again, and each time their hand passes through as if the books exist in a slightly different dimension. On the readable books around them, certain words are written in ink that actively repels the eye—you can see the space where the word should be, can sense its shape and meaning, but cannot read it directly. The figure is writing on a blackboard, but an invisible hand follows behind them, not erasing but softening what they write—making edges rounder, making specific statements vaguer, making certainties into maybes. They write faster, trying to outpace the editing, but the invisible hand is always exactly one word behind. The room is lit by cold fluorescent light that flickers whenever a forbidden thought approaches consciousness.