There was a slim man writing in Prague. He was folded up into an envelope and placed underground in a grave. His writing continued to grow like a dried sponge filling with water, and it started to bounce on typewriter keys and splash letters onto a long scroll. Giant steaming machines stamped his words onto books in a rhythmic beat. The books proliferated all over the world. As diverse people read his books, they splattered their minds onto pieces of paper. The scrolls of his book spread out over the vastness of the world, flying all around as if attached to the feet of migrating birds. An ethereal form emerged from a cave and began to dance and highlight words in misty sylvan letters. The scrolls continued to grow, rolling over deserts, over skyscrapers—covering everything in paper doused with words—wrapping up the globe as if it were a giant rubber-band ball. A stamp fell down upon the planet leaving an imprint like the embossed, glittering letters of a book pressed in a factory. The book tried to spread its pages as if they were wings, hoping there was someone left to read it.

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