Sometimes the way out is fraught with treachery. Within these dark cellars, a struggle towards the light, the promise of release and wholesomeness, may well prove futile. A glimpse of sun rooms on the upper floors may tempt, until, like nymphs changing into toothless hags, they suddenly bare their perforated floors. The boards above the basement are randomly collapsed; a wrong step can cripple or kill. The stairs themselves are a moist cardboard illusion of stability.

This hospital is corrupt. It gathers the last visitors in its bowels, warms them with carpets of mold, soothes them with the geometry of never-ending corridors. The brick, moist with rot, has withstood so many decades. No need to risk a flight outside. Life creeps by so much more slowly down below.