my favorite restroom will eventually kill me

I'm back to working in a very old, dilapidated shopping complex called Mido Jonghap Sangga (미도 종합 상가). "Mido" (미도) is the name of the neighborhood; Jonghap (종합) means "integrated" or "put-together"; Sangga (상가) means something like "store," "mall," or "shopping center." A jonghap sangga, then, is a shopping complex in which a bunch of different little shops and emporia are housed together. It's not as large or ambitiously scaled as a department store (that's called a baekhwajeom [백화점] in Korean), and while it's not as small as a grungy mom-and-pop store, it might contain a mixture of mom-and-pops and small chain stores. A jonghap sangga will also normally house things like real-estate offices, stationery stores, groceries, butcher shops, clothing-repair shops, downscale hardware stores, eyeglasses/contacts stores, doctor's offices, pharmacies, clothing and shoe stores, and sundry other shops selling knickknacks and esoterica. Mido has all of the above, but for all its variety, it's still an old, run-down place on its last legs. A couple years ago, I'd heard rumors that Mido was due for demolition and reconstruction (there is, of course, no guarantee that the stores occupying the building, pre-demolition, can come right back once the new building, with its more expensive property values, has been constructed). Nothing has happened yet, but if we get word that it's time to scram because the wrecking crew is here, I won't be surprised.

Old buildings have dark, dank corners and stinky-ass restrooms. That may be the worst aspect of working in an old building: the ambient filthiness that is most prominent around the plumbing. Mido is built a bit like a maze, but it doesn't lack for restrooms: there are at least two on every floor. The restrooms, at their cleanest, look and smell grungy; the one down the hall from where I work constantly smells rancid—like the piss of a being that isn't quite human. My favorite restroom, mainly because it receives so little traffic, is located on the B1 level. There's no rancid smell, but the restroom smells musty and ancient. I don't mind that, but the restroom also holds a horror that I'll show you now:

That's the ceiling-mounted ventilation. You can see that it's covered in a legion of dust bunnies and other unimaginable filth. The photo doesn't convey the true horror of the thing; you need to see it up close for yourself. I've taken to imagining all the microorganisms softly and invisibly raining down from that infernal, upturned pit of demonic malice—the little creatures that are only too happy to take up residence inside my lungs' alveoli. So I'm in a bind: I plan to keep visiting my favorite restroom, but my favorite restroom plans to kill me. Is this what it feels like to be a smoker?

NB: the above problem can be solved in ten seconds by using a powerful vacuum cleaner that has a hose attachment.