The room is slightly chilly, with pale yellow-green walls and plenty of light. There are either plenty of windows or it's open to the outside. It has either wooden floors or pale carpeting. The sparse furniture is golden-amber wood. I'm lying on a futon. There is a single painting on a the wall - the Michelangelo sketch of a woman's profile. The room has high ceilings.

The forest is a redwood forest, mostly dark with patches of sunlight flooding in. The trees are so tall, so majestic, standing in silent testimony to the power and grace of time. The floor is carpeted with fallen needles. A stream runs through, arched over and covered with ivy - green, glowing ivy.

The path is narrow, and winds. It is an abandoned path, and it dodges in and out, but you can always find it again. It goes over a bridge, a long, rickety bridge.

It's the ocean. A gray, steely-blue fog covered ocean that crashes again and again into the gray rocks below... The power of the pacific.

It's clay, squat, round, and short. It's a bowl, really; an earthen vessel straight out of Genesis. The sides are smooth and bare. If you lift it up and look at the bottom, there's a circular/symmetric symbol of some sort carved into it; the signature of the artist.

The key is small, compact. It's a plain steel affair, simple and elegant. It will unlock the secrets to worlds unknown, it will unlock the imagination and allow one to fly...