My books were still my books, but in the otherlight they belonged to a library long since destroyed, the great library of Babel, lost in time. In the grey otherlight yesterday was today and tomorrow. My books bore the name of great authors who during their lifetime had not been granted a chance to write. Who had existed like I did now, but had suffered from persecution, hunger, war, or had just had the misfortune to be born as women who had not been granted to even learn to read and write. I saw their names on the spines of the books in this library. And I was filled with a sense of gratitude to the stars of my own life, a feeling that was way too large to be contained in one person and so it just swiftly washed through me in the otherlight.