You are in a round pavilion, gauzy mist-grey curtains hanging between the silver columns that outline the shape of the pavilion. They flutter and sway in the night breeze. The floors of the pavilion are silver polished to a mirror finish. Should you look down at your feet, you will see yourself--but not yourself. Instead, you will see you as how you've wished to be or perhaps how you fear you are. If you look up at the high domed ceiling, you will see the night sky, the moon hanging impossibly large overhead.

There is a reclining couch in the center of the pavilion, upholstered in dark grey velvet. In front of it is another column, a miniature of the ones at the edge of the pavilion, a collins glass of high-proof colorless corn whiskey on top.