We had a key to the back door and, once we reached the domed building, we let ourselves in. Inside, it was magnificent. The ceiling – crafted by some virtuoso with an unpronounceable Spanish name – was painted with a sunset, reaching forward with rose and gold foil like the hand of God himself pushing back clouds for a better view; the very air tasted of dust and dead things, as if it was telling /one dust to dust to constant dust/, the particular whisper of libraries that have been well tended, for they are always speaking a silent reminder of transience.