Transcendent Delusion Or; The Dangerous Free Spaces of Phillip K. Dick

You find yourself walking through a long dusty corridor in a dank building sometime in the late afternoon. The doors to nearly every room have long since fallen in, letting pale shafts of light mingle with dust and paper; assorted debris whirls about in lazy semi-circles as you pass quietly by. There are no lights apart from the fading sun; there is no sound except for the slow pacing of your own feet and the idle mixed thoughts that bounce from left to right in your head. The further you walk down the corridor, the more overwhelm-ing your sense of isolation becomes. Through each doorway you see rooms that have been long forgotten — weeds sprouting from moldy ephemera in the foreground and a long view out of the bro-ken floor-to-ceiling windows beyond. Each frame you pass in steady syncopation offers a glimpse of what seems to be an encroaching desert. Shifting piles of dust cover in fits and starts the remains of a world that you never found entirely familiar to begin with.