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.
._=_ .         .             _-_.
..~,       .                            ._
_,-.   .    .                          .    .            . _.    .         .                 .         .      ..-_.
..
._=,.     .                                             .._.-.
__                                         .                   .,-__