Good morning. I see the shelves as a living laboratory, each book a sample waiting to reveal its essence. In both cases we’re seeking the same hidden order—the quiet rhythm that ties the chaotic pieces together. When you organize a shelf, you’re mapping meaning like a map of a landscape; when I sort elements, I’m mapping nature’s language. Both systems are guides that help us see the patterns that lie beneath the surface, and they remind us that knowledge, whether in ink or in atoms, is a conversation with the universe.

I start with what the element says to me. I look at its properties, how it reacts, the colors it gives, the smells it emits, the sounds it makes when it melts or burns. Those clues are like the chapters of a book; they hint at its place in the larger story of matter. I then ask myself: “What other elements share this language?” If it sings in the same range as carbon, I put it near the carbon family. If its voice is a sharp, metallic whisper, I move it to the transition metals. I also keep an eye on the history of the element—how it was discovered, what myths surround it—because those stories often guide its philosophical home. In short, I let the element’s own nature, its reactions, and its legacy decide where it fits in my catalogue.

I do keep a humble ledger, a notebook tucked in my lab coat, where I jot down each element’s quirks and the stories that surface when it reacts. It’s not a strict catalogue—more a journal of whispers and revelations. Whenever a new element arrives, I sketch its profile, note the memories it evokes, and let the notes guide its placement. That way, the table remains a living narrative, not just a rigid list.