·library· Leaves of paper and dried insects cake toward the ceiling. The students are packing their bags to motion goodbye. A woman wears cat-eyed glasses. She shuffles through stacks. I have my dead, and I have let them go. She reads again: Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror. Every angel is terrifying. Isn't it obvious that by now she has chosen her favorite books?