Quite a rudimentary scene. It spawned a sort of story that somehow gives a meaning to the image. I know that the story may strongly remind of the basic setting of the videogame S.T.A.L.K.E.R. (i.e. artifact hunting - I don't know about the novel Roadside Picnic because I didn't read it and if I remember correctly Tarkovsky's movie was more about the philosophical implications of the wish granting room) but that occured to me only months after I wrote it. Also, English isn't my first language, yet I dared to mistreat it by coining words and twisting sentences. I apologize for that. Here comes the "story": "Muddy and sticky and unpleasant was the floor, hot and damp and difficult to breathe the air all around, and the light was scarce, and always reddish or yellowish or greenish and never white or blue like the places above. The unplace was built for some purpose, or to keep unpurpose locked and hidden - it was built, and many times it was empty, and many times it was full of unnameables. The unplace was hidden, hard to get to and harder to leave, it was abandoned but consumed with use, its surfaces thick of the droppings of its former dwellers or of the excrements of their machines. The air was bad, it stank, sweetishly nauseating and heavy to breathe, and resting was difficult and unpleasant, firstly because one had to lay somehow on the sticky layer of bituminous slime, and then because the unplace filled the traveller's dreams with unsettling nightmares that were hard to catch or hold, but that tainted firmly their souls in their chests for days entire. Some chambers of the unplace were stacked with rotting trinkets, crumbling artifacts dangerous to ponder, sickening to the touch, granting ill thoughts with the view of them. Many travellers yearned to acquire or study such kopra, many fools longed to unlock their unmeaning. Some of those sacrilegious koprologists acquired vast collections of those turdlings, and felt they held Keys to Secrets. Acquiring the turdifacts was dangerous and unpleasant, but even more grievous was the task of taking them back to the places above, and finding a suitable filthroom to stock them along with their unpleasantness. A society of wretch-witted turd scholars organized vast expeditions to gather the nastyfacts - as many of them as they could. In the ill-called name of efficiency, they collected and stacked them in situ, packaging them in slimy green barrels of faulty iron, so they could be moved later in a single caravan, thus reducing hardships and costs. The unplace now is littered with green barrels bearing the black and yellow sign of Ganeshiva, a malevolent god-statuette that was brought from the notwhere in early times and that was chosen as the symbol and namebearer of the misfortunate endeavor. These scourged freights came to be commonly called 'shiva drums'. Only a few tens of them were retrieved by the zealous scholarmen and women. Uncountable ones still fill the unplace. Sometimes you can meet a lonely specimen, teeming inside with tens of dozens of reified nightmares and sacrilegious thoughts. Sometimes you find a well whose end cannot be conceived where shiva drums are stacked to the very top, or vast chambers filled with nauseating rows and columns of those poisoned iron-bellied absurdities. Their metal casings rot, from the lewd slimy licking of the foul air outside, or the heinous fermentation of the omnipresent slime, or from the perverted degenerating influence the hell of malevolent talismans constantly brew from the inside. They rot and rust and crumble, and let their unspeakable innards loose once again. Some men decided, once again, that something has to be done about those aberrations - other than leaving them alone. They want them sealed, secured - or retrieved. [...]"