Imagine you just stumbled upon a cozy multistory grotto of shoppes. It appears to be unobservable to everyone passing by it on the crowded street and sidewalks; everyone passes right by it except for you.

You step inside its warm jumble of crooked halls and stairways. Strange muffled carnivale calliope klezmer music emanates from a distant room somewhere up a corner spiral staircase.

Without thinking you wander forward as if drawn by magnets.  Around a corner you spot a store stuffed full of keyed machines and other analog devices. A magical space full of the potential of thousands upon thoysand of letters, symbols, and spools of inked black ribbons.

The sign in the glassed door says CLOSED, but …