The room is stark white and very chilly, lit by florescent bulbs. I'm in a bed, but there aren't enough covers and the brightness of the room only lends to it's coldness. There's nothing on the walls, no windows, no pictures and the bed is the only furniture.

The forest is damp and misty. The trail winds through towering cedars and pine trees, the dampness meeting my skin. The light is that of early morning.

The path has been well used, almost maintained, but I see no one. The forest is very still and i hear nothing but my own breathing and footsteps.

Note that the “assistance” seems clinical, detached—as if the subject were guided by a checklist approach.

The path ends at a small mountain stream. It rushes swiftly and noisily down the rocky stream bed. Moss covered boulders do little to impede the clear, cold water. Surely it is so pure as to be drinkable.

It is a carved wooden vessel with a stopper attached with twine. It has a beautiful wood grain, a graceful neck extending to a bulbous base. It is not particularly large.

This key looks very antiquated. It's metal is crusty and beginning to flake. It is a long, slender key with few teeth. I am at a loss as to what it might be to-- this world is as a dream that I can't quite remember.