Winter 1985. I was in New York city for a conference. One evening, a buddy and I took the cable device that takes people to Roosevelt Island in the East River. It wasn't too cold. There were people walking about, even though it was a winter evening, because there are nice modern apartments on the island. Suddenly my friend and I found ourselves walking through ruined victorian bric-a-brac. Broken timber, loose bricks, clapped out high narrow windows. The stuff of a gothic horror film. I felt as if I walked into a Lovecraft short story. Then I suddenly remembered that Roosevelt Island was where New York city's first mental hospital had been located, and we were probably walking through the ruins thereof. Spooky.