The scent of a life well-lived.

I hear the woeful, stubborn moan of a heavy door as it gives way to my entry, and an old brass bell greets me with a cheerful cry. I am embraced by the dust of many a by-gone era, and welcomed by the scent of a life well-lived.

I wander through cluttered, crowded hall-ways, gently brushing it's occupants as I walk. I pick one up and stare intently into his face. His name is Dickens. I caress his face, softly feeling every crack and wrinkle of age is his face. As I open his pages, he groans angrily at the abuse of his spine, and he breathes on me the breath of a life well-lived.

I descend worn stairs who whisper to me secrets of the past, secrets of other pilgrims searching to unlock history's mysteries. In a dank, dark room, I meet one whose name is Victor. He awakens from a deep slumber with a screech, and shakes the dust from his vocal cords. Slowly, he finds his song, and shares a voice from a life well-lived.

I find a forgotten singer, a marauder, a criminal. He tells me his name is Johnny. He breathes heavily as he prepares to sing, and turns in circles as he warms up. The grooves scarred in his skin reveal an age of experience, wonderful and terrible. He takes a final rasping breath, and sings me the song of a life well-lived.