The endless Corridor of room 111

"I was pacing up and down a dimly lit underground train station trying to find room 111 because I had to hand a thick yellow envelope to someone, though I had no clue who. Every door along the endless tiled corridor had the exact same metal plate stamped with the numbers 111, glowing with a soft, flickering blue light. I tried opening the first one, but the handle turned into a soft plastic straw in my grip. I kept checking my wrist to see what time it was, but my watch face just kept blinking 1:11 over and over in bright red digits, and this weird, disorienting static buzzed in my ears. Suddenly I wasn't in the hallway anymore; I was sitting in the back row of a huge, empty movie theater, holding a paper ticket with 111 printed three times across the top. The big screen in front of me was totally blank, but I couldn't stop staring at it, completely consumed by this strange, nagging feeling that I was supposed to remember something important."