My pen ran out of ink. But like kept rolling along. This city makes me feels things I haven’t felt in a long time. I haven’t wept this deep or laughed this loud. A hobo accosted me in a cathedral and I had no cash for his dramatic sob story in a perfect Scottish accent. A barman let me taste his own homebrewed stout with a look in his eyes begging for positive feedback. I saw a child die in the street and a woman appear to be raised from the dead. I have felt the pulse of this city and it lead me to a door made entirely of granite. The queerest of door frames if ever there could be one with a lock that entices one to put ones hand into a whole surrounded by rubber tentacles. A mystery felt afoot.

The door was unlocked, only opened by those that brave the intimidating door handle. And as one pushed the door inside, a lantern held by a man sized goat on hind legs illuminated a few steps in. The door closed with a strange whistle and the goat motioned forward into a black abyss. Oregano was on the nose. Fresh. As I didn’t take steps forward instantly, the goat woman made a noise of frustration and grabbed my hand, muttering to herself as if to say “This fool. Came all this way and now is nervous” We descended stairs, turned a corner, went through three doors, a darkened kitchen and a dirt floored opening and suddenly stopped.

In front of me was a chair. I was guided to sit and stare into the blackness. My heart pounding as loudly as it ever has it was at that moment I realised I was wearing my shoes on opposite feet. A pain began to emerge like a headache after being upside down for too long. I coughed. I coughed a again and this time I felt sweat pour down my back, pooling in my shirt just before it became pants.

Whispers that seemed to be straight into my ear “Museums are for learning, for remembering. You are not ready for this place”