Steven Moffat lives in a cottage in a small, English, country village. There are bright gardens, and hedges with convenient gaps for children up to mischief, a harmless vicar and a pub with a genial barman and a quiz game.
His cottage is a happy place full of laughter. It is a place of family, friendship, and cheer.
His cellar is brightly lit. Its carpet is deep and cushioned, robin's egg blue. It goes on for miles. Shelf after shelf, cabinet after cabinet, it is filled with tiny glass vials. Each contains a spoonful of carefully gathered tears. Steven Moffat drinks despair. He collects it, bottles it. He never opens his vials. He lets them ... improve. He captures and labels your torment. Anyone can visit Steven's basement. Anyone can see his bottles. Anyone stumbling upon his legacy of despair can go home. You will leave a token behind you. Steven charges tuppence a tour, and he leaves the proceed to charity.
In his cellar , he keeps sorrow.
Steven's cottage has an attic. The attic is reached by a stairwell The stairwell can only be entered through a shed at the rear. The shed has only one door. The shed is filled with cobwebs and shadows. Only Steven can enter the shed. Only Steven can face its keeper. The keeper's grip is firm on the kindling strewn about the floor of the shed.
The stairs tremble and creak as he walks to the attic. The attic has a single door. Only Steven possesses the key. Behind the door is a second door. Only Steven has the key. The second door can only ever be opened when the first is shut and locked. The attic is filled with shelf after shelf, cabinet after cabinet; horrors stacked aside horrors. The attic is dark and dusty, its floor wooden and painful. No one can enter Steven's attic and leave. Only he has permission to sample its flavors.
In his attic, he keeps nightmares.