Dust.

It was a dim corridor.

A drab carpet that reeked of decades past winded through the mall passage ways and branched off into various depressing stores, all of which were almost completely empty. A florescent light buzzed and mannequins beckoned headlessly from the surrounding windows, their fingers curled grotesquely behind freckled pains. We passed into one of such shops and floated through isles of hanging fabrics and quizzical frocks.

Submerging ourselves deeper into the artificial lighting, my sister and I perceived another human being. He loitered about, behind the counter, and killed time by arranging and rearranging the display. Our presence did not disturb the dusty old man, nor do I believe we could have. It was as if he had long given up on receiving costumers and had resigned himself to perpetual preparation, performing menial tasks that could be done and redone--all for the sake of this thing that would never come. The old man had forgotten the sound of footsteps--the sound shoes make as they pass softly from the retro carpet to land (lightly scuffing)on the hard floor of the shop. He did not look up. Not once.

Meeting eachother's glance, my sister and I silently agreed to leave.

Perhaps it was the intoxication of the flickering light of the artificial sky, or perhaps it was the freakish tauntings of the freakish display mannequin--but upon turning around, the room seemed to stretch at least three fold the distance we covered walking in. The opening seemed to be the arch of a distance mirage.