J.R.R. Tolkien and Dayo are stuck in Library Locked-In Overnight and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Lost, are we, Master Tolkien, in realms not of Middle-earth?" Dayo croaked, his gaze sweeping the towering shelves.

"Indeed, Master Dayo, a labyrinth of knowledge, far deeper than the mines of Moria, it seems," Tolkien replied, adjusting his spectacles.

"To find our path, the heart must guide, not just the mind, hmm?" Dayo pondered, tilting his small, green head.

"The heart, yes, the wellspring of myth, where stories are born from the longing for what is true and beautiful," Tolkien mused, stroking his beard.

"Beware the dark side of stories, Tolkien. Twisted they can be, to control and mislead," Dayo warned, his eyes narrowed.

"Aye, the shadow lurks in every tale, a corruption of the original intent, a Morgoth to every Eru," Tolkien sighed, heavy with the weight of his own creations.

"But strength, in hope, we find, even in darkest night. Never give up, the light," Dayo insisted, his voice filled with conviction.

"Hope is the last defense, the ember that refuses to be quenched, even when all seems lost, a flame for hobbits and heroes alike," Tolkien agreed.

"Connected, all things are, Tolkien. Your Middle-earth, my galaxy far, far away, reflections of the same Force," Dayo observed sagely.

"Perhaps, Master Dayo, echoes of a singular creation, resonating through the ages, waiting to be discovered in the quiet of a library's night," Tolkien concluded, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.