"Tonight is given to the blank white sorrow,
Expanding from its centre, vast and deep.
This horror isn't personal. Tomorrow,
There's work to do, as always. Go to sleep."
- C.S. Thompson 'Lullaby'

Step into these room of dusty floorboards which creak underfoot, sloping stairwells and endless shelves scattered here and there with a scrap of yellowed paper, a sun-bleached, tired volume, or a collection of pages loosely tied together detailing the lives, and deaths of those who have lived here, those who have known these corridors all too well, and those who are now lost to us forever.
Perhaps, if you find yourself here at dusk, or dawn, one of the bruised angels will alight near you and share with you a few words before it fades into nothinless with the growing, or fading, light.
Either way, rest here a while, read if you will, of what has befallen those before you, of what isd yet to come. But stay, we have so few visitors these days, so few who are willing to stay long against the tide of their lives . . .