There was, of course, a library at the edge of the universe. It was built to fit the space. That space, for the moment, was infinite. But it was the kind of infinite that was smaller than other kinds of infinite — both space and libraries are funny that way. This library had an agenda. Most do. But this one's was more specific than most. It wanted to hold all the books in the universe, whether they liked it or not. And it got the books by poking and prodding the universe in all kinds of different ways, until it gave up the literary ghost. Well, all the literary ghosts. So. There sat a library at the edge of space that housed all the books in the universe. It mostly sat, anyway. Sometimes it stood. Occasionally it stretched a bit. And on two occasions, yawns were recorded as galaxies doing a funny little seismic shift. It might yawn again. In an eon or two. Because it is waiting. It's been waiting for an infinite amount of time. One of the smaller infinites
Once upon a time, when the air was colder and the nights more dark, a fire gleamed in the distance. It moved and crept and finally it swept, the whole world engulfed in it's flames. When the flames died, all that remained was char. For a time. Until the first shoot rose. The thought of fire died a death made only by forgetting. And, as usual, the world went on.
There was once a little girl who wanted to look through the eyes of everything. And so, she did. At least, she did it as best she could, for she had no interest in causing any creature or being or inanimate thing harm. To do this involved three tasks, for all such incredible feats involve three tasks. First, she thought. Next, she observed. Then, she imagined — which was the very best part of all. When she was done, thinking and observing and imagining, she was different all the way through. In fact, she became the kindest person in the whole world. For that's the kind of thing that happens when you look through the eyes of everything.