Finnegan saw a book in the library. Yeah the libary is where he was . . . or maybe he wasn't; but it seemed like the library, the library where ideas, ludicrous ideas, notions (as if) always written by one person, in this central sort of way, meaning like all writers can only write themselves, in this kind of absorption,

but it was the library. And he saw a book, one of these self-help emphatic numbers-- DO IT, was the title. DO it, it declared, demanding him to GET off his butt--to live his dreams.

Trouble for Finnegan, he had already done it . . .
Now he didn't even know if he was in the library or in some picture movie with digital numbers flowing through the furniture.