It wouldn't be a library for Richie. Not a maze or a cathedral or anything so organized or structured. It'd be something busier, louder.
Now that they were apparently focusing on his head, Richie could kind of feel that push, like someone trying to -- not open a door, but maybe peek behind a curtain? He didn't know what to do with that, because it was weird and unfamiliar, and so he had to pinch at the bridge of his nose, his glasses lifting slightly to make room for his fingers. "What the fuck," he said, not really bothered so much as -- well. He didn't know.
"Sometimes?' He asked it though, like he wasn't sure. Not really. "It's like. Stuff that could happen or maybe should have or -- I don't know. It's all jumbled. Wrong. This place makes it hard to tell? Because it's --you know." The deadlights had nothing on a place that wasn't meant to exist in the first place. Even still, sometimes he felt like if he waited long enough, whatever was in there might catch up. Or maybe not? "It happened to my friend. When we were kids. She said she had dreams, saw terrible shit. But it went away. Because we killed it." So it stood to reason that it would for him, too. That's what he'd been banking on.