Once there was a story, quite a riveting tale, in fact.
This story, still naive and innocent with the fresh smell of newly printed paper, was gingerly slotted into place beside another book. Curious about the world around him, he asked the book next to him(telepathically, of course) where he was, for he knew nothing other than the tale inscribed on his flesh, that he was a book, and that there was a book beside him.
The neighbouring book grumbled(still telepathically) and answered.
“You are a book. You should know that. Your only purpose is to entertain other people when you a borrowed from the library, which is a place where books like you and me are stored for people to borrow and read. I felt you being slotted into place just now. That was the librarian arranging books, which includes you. Not every single book is like you, some are different with different words that make up phrases, clauses, sentences, paragraphs, books of all kinds etcetera etcetera it’s so amazing to be a book especially since you can hear every single children’s book in here whining about how dirty children’s hands are! It’s life! DEAL WITH IT!” he screamed telepathically, his telepathic voice raising at the end of his rant.
“Oh. That makes sense.” Storybook(that’s what I’m going to call him for lack of a proper name) thought meekly. “So what type of story are you?” Storybook inquired.
Storybook’s neighbour decided to have a little fun. “You know what fire is, don’t you? It’s probably inscribed in your flesh.” Storybook nodded eagerly(but still telepathically). “Well,” Storybook’s neighbour continued, “I am in fact the story of you, and what happens next is that we all die a horrible agonising death due an arsonist burning down the library.” He secretly smiled telepathically, waiting to telepathically infer what the look on Storybook’s face would be if he had one.
Instead, Storybook shrugged telepathically. “I guess you’re right. I can feel myself burning now, actually,” he said/thought nonchalantly.
Storybook’s neighbour would have done a double take if he could. “W-what did you say?”
“Oh, it’s simple,” Storybook thought. “I said-”
Storybook never finished his sentence because he and his neighbour and every other book in the library, as well as the library staff, died a horrible agonising death due to an arsonist burning down the library.