The lettering style of the epigraphs, of course, is not uniform. Some are done with meticulous care, in block-style letters, while others appear scratched in haste by agitated authors. Then too, some carved family crests and inscribed within them classical lettering, and some drew shields with stylized, hard-to-read script tucked inside. The lettering varies, and the languages too are by no means consistent. There is English, of course, but there is also Italian and Latin. The words, "My hope is in Christ," over to the left, were carved by a monk named Paslew. This Paslew was beheaded in the year 1537. Close by is inscribed the name "JOHAN DECKER." I have no idea who Decker was. Up the stairs, it says "T.C." by the doorway. These are someone's initials, but whose I cannot say. A bit further on is a most meticulous work. On its right side is a cross adorned with a heart, next to which is carved a crest and bones. Further on is a shield with the following words inscribed. "Fate hath cast me cruelly to the cold wind. Let time crumble away. My stars are of sorrow, yet they pity me not." The next one reads, "Cherish all your fellow men. Love all things living. Fear God. Honor the King."
I tried to fathom the hearts of these writers. The most agonizing thing in this world, I suppose, is the agony of tedium. Nothing is so painful as a consciousness void of change. Nothing is so painful as an able body deprived of movement by unseen cords. Just as to live is to move, the suppression of movement renders the living lifeless. The pain of what one's lost is a pain worse than death. All who filled these walls have known this pain worse than death. Enduring all they could endure, and withstanding all they could withstand, they struggled against this pain. Finally, when they could take no more, they occupied themselves with a broken piece of metal or sharpened fingernail. For as long as they had, they poured forth their discontent, voicing their troubles over these smooth walls. They were spurred on, no doubt, by unquenchable force of will, even after all cathartic means, be it words, symbols, lamentation, or tears, had been exhausted.