Imagine a tunnel. It doesn’t matter where it is, but you’re inside a tunnel. You walk along, in the dark, and you have no idea where you are, or what the walls are made out of, but it doesn’t feel like stone, or anything else you might expect to find in a tunnel.
Somewhere in the distance is a light. You run towards it, and look up, and see nothing but a bright light overhead.
Covering your eyes, you look down, and notice a book. Turning, the walls of the tunnel come into focus, and you see nothing but books, as far as the eye can see. You stoop down, and pick up one that fell down. It has no cover, but the words inside make you think it’s some sort of old fashioned romance novel.
Looking back up, you jump up, and grab at a book, and pull it down from the edge of the hole. The book falls down on you, and you scramble to pick it up, but, it’s gone. The only book on the floor of the tunnel is the first you found.
You try again, and again, and again, to grab at the top of the tunnel. It’s your way out, and you can’t make the hole any wider. Pushing against the walls of the tunnel does no good.
In despair, you sit down, head in hands. After a time, you pick up the book. At least if you’re stuck here, you may as well read it.
After a story of love, loss, and a slightly contrived happily ever after, something falls, hard, on your head. Looking up, the hole is a bit larger, and the light a bit brighter above. You pick it up, and enter another world, this time in some far off fantasy world.
Again, and again, books fall from overhead, until the side of the tunnel collapses in a pile of stories. Standing up, neck stiff, you walk to the edge, and see row after row of tunnels around you. Walking along the top of the one next to yours, you see a name along the spine of one of the books underfoot. It’s yours.