it's all a little messed up in there. I envision a little me, trudging through a jungle and a desert, to reach a house in the middle. And there's no door; the welcome mat is a lie. The entrance is hidden with a button disguised as a stone to open it.

And there's a library. A music room. No bed, no kitchen. There's a little clerk that sorts out files and organizes books all day long. She's an old granny, forgetful and sometimes messes up the order, but that's okay. Music drifts out occasionally from next door but it never really stops. And the door to the room is locked; unable to be stopped.

At the end there's a basement. A set of stairs lead to a locked door, a vault if you will. Jars and tubs and containers of all sorts litter the place, filled to the brim with sadness and anger.