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In any city, in any country, enter any book store you can get yourself in to. When you walk through the door, the clerk standing at the desk will look at you with faint interest. You must ask to see the 'Holder of the Neverender.' He will be utterly powerless before you at that moment, compelled to wander into spaces which neither you nor he should rightfully know about. But you will know of them - the door below the floor hidden by carpet, the dank and joyless corridor beneath it, and more. He will reveal all of this to you, and to himself.
After wandering about in confusion, he will finally lead you to someone else. It will be an elderly woman, or at least what you will sense to be one. Her skin will be free of wrinkles, her teeth a piercing ivory-white much like her hair. But despite her unnatural beauty, you will be able to tell how truly ancient she is. Her eyes will betray her fearsome senescence. She will be reading a book. Its cover will appear long faded, its bindings still in place but visibly tattered. She will read its contents aloud from time to time. They will seem cacophonic, akin to the ramblings of lunatics or war cries of some mercifully forgotten tribe. They are not.
You must tell her that you have been waiting for her your whole life. This will seem absurd to you, but it is not. You will realize that as soon as you utter those words. Upon your crushing realization, she will hand you a letter that seems even more yellowed and battered than the book's pages. You must ask the clerk to lead you back up immediately after-wards, or you too will become as she is.
Should you read the letter, you will notice something. Despite its apparent dwarfish nature, the space within it is infinite. True, there are words upon it. But those black dots, indelible as they may be, are but small grains of sand in a boundless ocean of white. It is Object 111 of 538. It does not end. But in short time, you will wish it did.