It appears to be my bedroom from childhood, the pink garage on Acton street, but it is smaller, as though the walls are closing in on me. The bookshelves that held my father's books still line the walls, with my stuffed animals atop them. The door-turned desk is still there, but it is lower, smaller. The room is cool, and the lack of windows suddenly seems stiffling, claustrophobic.

The forest is like the woods in Tilden park, with tons of eucalyptus trees. Yet behind the eucalyptus, the forest seems full of pines. Where I am, it is light, yet beyond the light, there is an ominous darkness.

Note the sudden change in lighting, as if the subject experienced some catastrophe that radically degraded the relationships with adults.

The path is wide, once well-travelled, but now it is empty, abaondoned, run down. Where I stand, it seems clear, but ahead and behind me it seems to be swallowed in upon itself, disapearing before and behind me.

A waterfall, flowing over rocks then overflowing onto the path. It's shallow, and seems to be absorbing into the path itself. It's a trickle, and a timid one at that.

A tin camping cup, dented and dirty, as though it was lost by a camper years ago.

Rusted, an old skeleton key, that might open anything or nothing. It's of little interest to me.