The air you breathe is that of books, of print, of ink and paper and dreams. Shattered dreams.
Then you step out of the long hallway, the one where a tap from your shoe richocheted off every painting and never settled, It rather floated above you, hovering, grinning, collapsing into the great echoey stretch of white noise. It didn't want to leave. Neither did you.
But as you put a toe on new land, thick new carpet, you see your lifesaver. No, it isn't one of those candies, heartlessly mass-produced by lord knows what cousin of Willy Wonka, but a rather peculiar one. A self-serve checkout station, a brand new little restaurant. You crawl gingerly to safety, drying in the sun, winking at the natives. You quench a new thirst, pop open a fizzing can of joy.