The acrid smell of dust, mold and wasted time permeates the long corridor. A candelabra stands sentinel to the right of each door, barely providing enough light to perceive the doorknobs. I stand alone, a dreadful foreboding weighing down on each uncertain step. The third door on my left beckons me, and as I touch the doorknob I immediately feel the heat, and the smell of burnt flesh adds to the pungent odor of the hallway. Nonetheless, the door opens to reveal a scantily dressed woman who resembles a young me. She’s dressed in 4-inch heels and a tight leather dress that barely contains her décolleté. She invites me in the room, motions me to sit on the purple velvet loveseat. A soft rose light begins to mitigate my fear. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, a centering yoga breath in spite of the toxic air. I am open to the cleansing. To the light I envision at the end of the corridor.