UNDERTOW is the name given to a dimension shaped by the mind. archetypes populate it, though it's a physical place: the landscape, the buildings, the sky & earth are a reflection of platonic ideals, rather than realities. it is a safe place, because although there are many ways to enter to UNDERTOW, those who enter it will always end up in their own version of the dimension. even if two people go through the same gate at the same time, they will be separated upon arrival.

many have tried to enter UNDERTOW, sometimes intentionally & sometimes entirely on accident. portals to UNDERTOW are always circles, & usually have little else in common. intent is the key ingredient in the creation of a portal: it's easiest to make one from natural materials, but some are practiced enough that they can gesture a circle in the air & step through to UNDERTOW, because that is where they want to go.

UNDERTOWs are not wholly identical, but they are the same place regardless. the world is an endless sunlit summer afternoon on the edge of dusk; portals open in wild fields or loose-knit forests that stretch as far as the eye can see. there is no end to the light, though the hour may seem to change, & the air always carries the same pleasant warmth.

upon entry, there are three structures that exist in everyone's version of UNDERTOW, & though the details sometimes vary, the ideas remain the same.

first: the cottage at the edge of the woods, grandma's house, the witch's place. a run-down single-story house with an air of time passing, holes in the roof & musty floral patterns. despite its deterioration, it gives the impression that someone is just in the next room & you will see them (any minute now).

second: your childhood home, the neighbors', suburbia's heart. regardless of actual childhood, the UNDERTOW building is an empty two-story house with three bedrooms. a master for your parents, one for your brother, & one for you. bedside lamps turn on & off, & the window blinds move in a nonexistent breeze. flowers grow huge in pots on desks & carpeting makes way for grass even in upstairs rooms. it always makes the visitor feel as though they are somewhere they once knew & loved.

third: the city where you lost yourself, dead metropolis, urbanity up in flames. it is massive & endless, & the sharp edges of the rows & columns are being eaten away by greenery. deep roots crack concrete slabs, water blooming with algae fills abandoned rooftop swimming pools, & vines cascade down apartment building facades. it should, all visitors know, be filled with people. it is barren of humanity, but still somehow full of life.