It was never intended, but millions upon millions of books once read and coveted were replaced by twenty-four hour twenty-five story books. Glitzy, glossy, placed for blockbuster promotional purposes, these rapidly made for less and less personal reflecting and made way for the era years later coined as the ‘Mass Reflections,’ until out of all of the ‘twenty-four twenty-five’s,’ as they were called, emerged just one book, the world’s biggest book. Like its smaller predecessors, it just stood there, more and more, especially on clear, bright days, reminding everyone that they needn’t read. No need. Wherever one turned, the biggest book reflected a huge chunk of the world and everyone trapped in it. Lost were the little book joys like What might I find on the inside of this one? It was more What to do with all of these crummy little books lying around? Simple: the ashes of varied and decent characters and who knows how many tales were used as mulch for flower beds planted around the world’s biggest book, to grace it. Eventually, though, a dry wind steadily blew, which raised dust among them — the flowers — till they easily pulled up their shallow roots, with dramatic difficulty covered their identical faces with petals, and scampered. But they did not wither till searching for cover or help could not find a single entrance back into the book. More and more were found tangled together at the foot of the book where they had, in their last moments, huddled together. About then, a huge national flag was raised atop the book. One person who saw the hoisting just happened to throw out, “And that’s for good measure!” And someone else standing there asked, “Where did that come from; what does it mean, good measure?” And that led to a national scramble to find the little books, to bring back what little books were left — this yet-to-be named time period — because of a feeling that everyone should have handy something in their hands that they can raise, raise and hold up to it, hold against it.