4

This is a story:

For a while, all I did was make books. From a stash of papers I rescued from a previous cleansing, I spread unnumbered pages on my kitchen table and gave them a sense of order. As night descended, I stitched pages together with waxed thread, glued them in a cloth-bound cover, and reinserted my book back into circulation. Unreadable! Degenerate! moaned the critics, and before they burned it with the others I took what I could from the pile and started again.