you exit the tunnel into a closet, decorated as to appear like some kind of tiny showroom. [fuck it, back into the tunnel]

a voice: "ah - sketches, ideas, thoughts. i'm like a candle about things like these - fluttering from one direction to the other." it comes from a tape recorder plugged into a light socket. ever so often, the message repeats.
.                 .      . . . .                                 ..--.
.._.              . .    .         .           . .                      .                 .            _
..=.
...
_._
_._                             .         .              ._-.                       .                      . .