Archaic 3rd Floor

You try to hold on to reality, to your sanity. This floor makes the ones below look almost logical. Through the fraying threads, you spy strange screens with warping, psychedelic colors dancing in time to distorted audio. A nebulous half-figure passes through you carrying a box of electronic components. It leaves the taste of old capacitor oil on your lips.

The ozone smell generated by the shifting of time is almost overpowered by the smell of burning rubber and solder. The air crackles, pops, and fizzes. It's like a bizarre cereal commercial.

Words and phrases that haven't been spoken in a generation pound into your eardrums like strange incantations: "CRT", "slide-rule", "8-track", "A Flock Of Seagulls album".