So deciding to be laboriously productive in celebration of the so-named holiday, I today reach the stage of clearing all the ancillary crap off my bookcases so I can then install their proper occupants. Who have, in the interim, multiplied. Fecund beyond belief, they are, such that I am up to my eyeballs in paperbacks and odd-sized volumes that refuse to fit into my (granted, also somewhat odd-sized - merely differently odd-sized) bookshelves. Aargh.
I've known for a number of years that one of my super-powers is the ability to spontaneously generate paper - you could lock me in an empty vault for a week, and when you came to let me out there'd be an old newspaper in the corner, a grocery receipt and several pieces of scratch paper just floating around. Apparently vindicating certain obscure evolutionary theories and flying in the face of the second law of thermodynamics, this has progressed to the level of complexity required to generate actual novels and hardcover books.