A Slanted Catalog

I waddled my base against the low wooden shelf to inspect a row of leaning books. It was a visual collapse in slow motion—seven volumes slanting thirty degrees into dead air. My top face narrowed, calculating the sheer structural stupidity of leaning spines, while my middle jaw prepared a scathing lecture on gravitational incompetence. Naturally, my bottom face had no patience for theory. I threw my timber sideways, slamming my lowest flank into the end book to force it upright. Thud. The paperbacks jerked, then slid in a domino wave, pinning my middle nose firmly against a leather spine. Trapped by poor organization. Typical.