Once I was lost in a library that contained all the books that will ever be written. I searched for my own, of course, but the spines showed only the titles, stamped in silver foil, not the names of the authors. Many of the words were alien to me, though I could read them all. Their meanings didn't yet exist, not for me.
After hours of searching, I gave up. Maybe I never wrote a book. And if I did, what good would it do to read it? I'd still have to write it myself eventually.
I escaped the labyrinth of books by morning.