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	Self-Reflection #2 You stand in the dim shack, silently screaming to escape this creepy place. All around you, crusty counters overflow with scraps of eerily grinding metal. Cluttering the floor, piles of broken, grayish wood creak under your feet. Paint fumes sneak over towards you from the paint-flecked cabinets and hollowly clanging lockers. Buzzing in from a small crack in a high window comes a fly, bringing with it a slight, warm breeze. The mild draft feels soft against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold aura of metal that lurks here. The abandoned workshed smell of cracked wood and rust leaks up from a filthy cement floor. Heart pounding, you back towards the door, sawdust screeching under your feet the whole way.

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