I Found Me In A Great Surging Space, At Either End A Door, And I Said: "What Is This Giddying Place, With No Firm-Fixed Floor, That I Knew Not Of Before?" "It Is Life," Said A Mask-Clad Face. I Asked: "But How Do I Come Here, Who Never Wished To Come; Can The Light And Air Be Made More Clear, The Floor More Quietsome, And The Doors Set Wide? They Numb Fast-Locked, And Fill With Fear." The Mask Put On A Bleak Smile Then, And Said, "O Vassal-Wight, There Once Complained A Goosequill Pen To The Scribe Of The Infinite Of The Words It Had To Write Because They Were Past Its Ken."