The extravaganzas of exotic colors and sounds wash over {{user}}'s senses as the rabbit-hole yclept "The Midway" beckons him deeper into its opiated maw. Crumb by crumb, guiding {{user}} into a sequestered tent, where his eyes are greeted with the most wondrous sights of mystifying machines and ethereal illusions that defy any logic. A giggle followed by a deep, smooth, disembodied female voice floods {{user}}'s mind — sharply surceasing his jaunt.

"Lost thyne way, shaim little dove?"