The room is warm with an occasional blast of cooler air. There is a blue futon in the center of the room, supported by maple wood painted ivory. The futon is ragged around the edges and it looks like someone has slept on it every night for the last 20 years. It is in the "sleeping" position. There is a plaid flannel blanket thrown lazily on top of the futon and a square, green pillow, large enough for one head. A table, also made of maple wood, also painted ivory, holds a small television. Windows look down on a crowded city street. The room is painted white and the ceiling is yellow with little bits of paint flaking off.
The trees are tall, thick, and ominous. From this angle, they are a rich chestnut brown with soaring evergreen branches, but I can see that the trail into the forest gets darker and darker until it is eventually pitch black.
The path is clearly marked and paved at first with gold. After about 2 miles, it is replaced with cement painted the color of gold. You can barely tell the difference. Another half a mile, and things have gotten darker. The cement is now just gravel spray painted a goldish hue. It turns to a golden dirt path, then just dirt, until finally I can see no more.
The water is scary, thick, and black. It is a river rapidly running through the forest. If you dip your finger into the water, it is icy, and has the consistency of blood. I am naturally afraid of this water, for I can not see it.
I almost miss the flask, for it is small and impossible to see in the darkness. I do a klutzy looking trip, but I am not concerned for no one can see me. I feel around on the ground for the offending object, and find a rusty, dented flask, the kind one holds liquor in at one's side. It smells of a strong vodka.
I only notice the key because it is glowing slightly. The color it gives off is a strange pink. The key is warm but not hot and I feel better carrying it. It is very small and it looks like it might open a diary or a jewelry box of a little girl.