There was a library. It was filled with books of all kinds, big ones, small ones, thick ones, thin ones, coloured in every colour one could think of, and written about everything that ever came to anyones mind. They dreamed of being picked up, opened, looked through, to be awakened by the voice of someone reading it, wether it'd be their real voice or the one of their thoughts. When they were read they came to life, became thoughts, feelings, ideas... and, that was the best thing about it, it never was the same as the last time. Mood, pronounciation, feelings, ideas, thoughts, they all depended on the one reading it. One and the same book could once be sad, once happy, once thoughtfull, once flat. It could feel with it's reader, could laugh, cry, giggle, smile, learn, forget, flee, search, find, loose. But even if a book was read twice by the same reader, it wouldn't be the same. Readers learned, forgot, concentrated on other points, found things they couldn't remember, understood things they didn't even notice the last time, were in different moods, they changed. And with them, each of the times a book was read changed.
Some of the books in the library were read more often than others, mainly the ones that were easy to understand and entertaining. In their best times, they hardly got any sleep, were awakened and kept awake by one reader after the other. But usually, after a shorter or longer while, they got read less. They weren't books to be reread often, at least not by the majority of readers. But usually they found a few who would make them their favourite books, so they never were asleep for too long.
Other books were old, older than the trees the younger ones had been made of had been. Depending on how good they were, and how famous their author had become, they either slept all the time and were only awakened if someone did research on them, or awakened again and again by people analysing them. Being analysed was a strange experience. Their readers would be concentrated, trying to get each detail, putting them into context. Some tried to link them to the society of their times, others to the lifes of their authors, others again to theology or philosophy or psychology. The people reading them were usually well educated, and so those books got countless different views on the world. Although they weren't read as often and hardly ever as loved as the easy and entertaining ones, they were happy with their lifes.
Another group of books were scientifical. They were only meant to spread facts, and they loved to do so. They as well had their own kind of readers. People who were searching, interested, curious, agreeing or disagreeing. They hardly ever were picked up by someone who didn't plan to. And they were glad about that. It wasn't much fun to be not only not understood, but also considered deadly boring.
And finally, there were books written in foreign languages. It wasn't a big library though, so those books weren't written in too exotic languages. They had quite a few readers who were only learning their languages, and, unless they hadn't been read by someone who actually spoke their languages, they didn't even know what they were meant to sound like. Most of them hoped to be at least once read by someone whose language they were written in.
Not all of the books stood in shelves, although most did. The ones in shelves had the advantage that they were sorted. Whoever came looking for them would have it easy to find them. But, only showing their backs, they couldn't show their covers and attract readers that way. Other books lay around, usually with their top on top, but sometimes also the other way round. Those books could attract readers with their cover, but were more difficult to find for the ones searching them. And finally, there were the books that had been left open. There always was a chance that their own weight would break their backs, they couldn't attract readers with their cover and would hardly be found by someone searching for them.
Noone in the library felt responsible to put books into shelves or close them. The readers weren't working there, so they didn't see it as their job.The ones cleaning did nothing but clean. They would keep the books free of dust, or lift them up to clean beneath them, but wouldn't close them or put them in their shelves. And then there were the ones who lent the books. They DID return books to their shelves, but only when they had just been given back. This way, the library always had quite a lot books lying around, some of them opened.