IN AN ever-expanding universe, there are relatively tiny doors through which all life passes, coming and going.
It's a wonder their delicate ceilings don't erupt on a daily basis and spew forth all of the love and despair, joy and grief their weary walls witness.
Luckily they fill them with the most learned and loving folk to make sense of what goes on in there - and keep the roof firmly fastened.
Sometimes it all seems utterly senseless, other times it's miraculous or it can be so mundane it hurts.
Praying, cussing, crying and sighing, hospitals see it all.
Some see it as a clinical environment, all white walls and glaring lights, but anymore colour in that place would be too much to comprehend.
After all, it is the doorway between life and death.
Having said that, it is filled with humans: patients, families, doctors and nurses.
In Tamworth, our mortal portal has some of the best nurses going around.
Patients regarded the treatment they received from the hospital's nurses at a very high standard.
They're better than the rest of the state; better than most of the local health district.
They can be no-nonsense, calm in the face of chaos and comforting in the midst of calamity.
There in our most tender and terrifying moments, they're a reminder much of time there can be.
Nathan Gray, a palliative doctor and cartoonist, illustrated this point in a comic strip about what he has heard people say on their way out.
It's enlightening and, at times, funny, but ultimately very sad.
So often our days are filled being frantic and frenzied in an attempt to do and be all we can.
The dividend is forgetfulness.
For every report filed, Insta post edited and filtered to perfection, every entirely unnecessary post-work networking knees-up, there's someone, somewhere who could really use your time.
Jacob McArthur is an ACM journalist