In his freedom, the Musician began to pace. He wore the sort of pointy heeled boots that a Beatle might have worn sixty years ago, which squelched into the rugs with each step. 

[i]"I'm freakin' out, man."[/i] The old man said to no one in particular.

There was no visible exit anywhere in the room, and claustrophobia quickly replaced the helplessness of being chained. There was no visible exit, and the room felt more and more like a tomb to the Musician as time passed. Four walls surrounded the group, the squelching rugs and small hole in the ground at their feet, and the hanging lightbulb above them. No doors anywhere, as evidenced by the Musician running his fingers along the wall, and as far as they could see, nothing but filth beneath them. He began to run his fingers on the edge of the ceiling, looking for [i]anything[/i], but to no avail. He began to feel like a rat trying to escape a trap, feebly jumping up and scrabbling at his surroundings, and sat down again, burying his head in his hands. If not the ceiling, then, perhaps, they hadn't checked the floor enough. He began to peel back rugs.

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