Your footsteps rang on the tile of the empty passageway as you strode toward the door at the other end. You had traversed this hall many times but today, something was different. . . colors came and went and edges blurred . . . sounds began to slow . . .
It seemed you had been walking down the hall for a very long time but at last you were almost at the door. It waited, pulsing in time with your own heartbeat,
And when you went outside, reality lurched and shifted. You knew, with a chilling finality, that nothing would ever be the same again.
Messing around with some pictures and this happened. Who can say where ideas come from?