Perspective Hundreds of times before he had walked past the building. Hundreds of times before he'd noticed it but passed it off as an architectural folly, something erected by an organisation filled with its own self importance. On Thursday that changed. When you suddenly become a tourist in a familiar environment you see things with a unique perspective. Maybe this explains what happened that day. He had no recollection of the building actually being open before. Yes there were doors, but all buildings had doors. If it didn't have doors it would have been too obvious. The place was advertised as a war memorial. There were the usual names around the outside, names in an austere, yet fashionable font fashionable at the time of creation that is, for it now looked very dated. The lights inside appeared suitably dim. There were pictures inside, but of what he couldn't say. The room felt wrong, no, the room _was_ wrong. The size, the temperature, the light. Nothing in there was right. He felt sick, dizzy, disoriented, or rather that's the best way of describing it. Some other sense had kicked in, not the much mystified sixth sense, that sense to him was on a par with his physical sensory system. This was something far deeper and far more complex. Once outside things returned to normal, but now it was like the building had been badly edited into the existing landscape, not obvious because of the wrong style, but almost like crayon had been used on top of a drawing with pastels. The desire to find out more is kept in check by, by the memory of that feeling. The memory of the feeling that is as close as he can get to describing.