This is perhaps a good place to tell you as much as I can about my personal history with the asylum.

Having received my PhD in psychology, specializing in manic depressive illnesses and their likely subcategories, I was hired by a private firm to run their R&D department.  Most of my work centered on social conditions effecting behavior and dejection in the common workplace.  After only fourteen months there, I was approached by a charismatic gentleman who reminded me very much of Santa Claus, only with a strong political panache.  At first I was quite intimidated by the amount of personal information he seemed to know about me, but my interest was sharpened when he made clear his intentions.  He informed me that I had personally been chosen from a large list of candidates to head an entire psychiatric ward.  Apparently the position had been unexpectedly opened with the sudden departure of the previous doctor.  Due to the sensitive nature of the information he had to offer, I was left with the impression that this involved a veteran's hospital dealing with private government agents.  I must confess that I imagined a small hospital filled with American versions of Ian Fleming's James Bond.  This world intrigued me.

I discussed the situation with my bride of two years.  She was the most supportive person I have ever known, always leaving the final decision with myself.  Since neither of us had any close ties with our current residence, I agreed to relocate and accept the position.  When I think back at how naive that younger version of me was, I feel the urge to laugh.  Not the laughter one experiences when told a good joke, but the mad laugh one conjures when they've forgotten how to cry.

My wife and I spent four months in briefings at an undisclosed location before we were finally able to move into a residence within the asylum.  The accommodations were more than substantial.  We truly believed we had found our place.  I was filled with anxiousness to investigate this genuine mystery called the Libri Verum and talk with real live patients who had experienced its content.  My sweet, dear wife was also eager to speak with the children within these walls.  Yes, there were children here.  Although she did not have an advanced degree in any psychiatric field, she had worked with special needs children before.  And no one needed special attention more than these kids.

I can now confess that I broke one of the strictest rules of the asylum.  I did not destroy the books that were confiscated during my watch.  My belief was that these pages are unique to our history.  They are real and very powerful.  It felt as though I were being asked to destroy the notes of Da Vinci.  These were far more worthy of a temperature controlled museum case than a four hundred and fifty-one degree furnace.   They must be preserved for a time when the future is strong enough to understand its content.  And so over the years my collection grew, hidden from my colleagues.

I almost felt guilty for being so happy in such a place of sadness.  Then slowly, my world dissolved around me.  After the tragic death of my wife, I became a different person.  Futility, hopelessness, and despair were my closest friends.  The idea of a "forgotten" asylum began gnawing at my conscience.  Are all of these residents - past, present, and future - including my wife, to be forgotten?  At least people on the outside are graced with a temporary rock that bears their name before they fade away.  The graves in our cemetery only bare numbers.  Numbers that match a file somewhere within the asylum's records room.  No names.  No faces.

Something had to be done.