You walk into a low ceilinged room about 20 x 20 with strange, uncomfortable lighting. The walls are chipped and black as if their has been a fire--theyre sweating blood and pus like an ugly wound that wont clot. A strange smell permeates the air, evoking memories of stale circus popcorn and old urine. Theres a large painted velvet image of Elvis in his later years on the wall with a distant, melancholy look on his face. Tattered furniture lines the perimeter of the room and you begin to notice figures in the poor light. Half decomposed bodies lounge about like discarded clothing and they seem to be situating a collective stare in your direction. You hear a shuffling in the corner and glancing, you see red-eyed rats clamoring over the remnants of John Wayne Bobbits most recent episode with the knife. The smell of skanky, old, unwashed sex fills yours nostrils causing you to gag and tear up. Doubling over, you hear a low voice murmuring from the corner, *Acknowledge your shadows...*
Jean-Paul Sartre is here.
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