Welcome Mat; A Picturama of Another's Presence

Hello. Let me warn you, I'm certified; but I swallow pills that absorb the crazies bunking inside my head twice a day, so I'm good.  Better than most.  I always dreamed of taking that magic carpet ride that song promised every time I heard it, but finally, recently, I discovered something so much better, a super find, if you will indulge me!
I arrived home from my favorite hang place, the library, but forgot the code to enter my house, really the god damned lock. (Serves me write.  I pushed the envelope, and stayed an hour extra today.  Bad, bad Girl)  As I relish the extra hour with a crooked grin on my hopelessly ugly face, I look down and notice my Welcome Mat.  Good God, might there sit a key under the mat?  Before I bent over to peep under this atrocity, I noticed the mat's otherwise dull brown, rough surface, now contained a picturama, like when I sit on a smelly bus for the long haul and I stare out the window.  Looking at The Welcome Mat created a similar effect, of looking out a window to escape the absolute hell hole in close quarters that threatens me.
This, though, I knew, belonged to someone else's artillery.  This picturama  begged to help a certain individual, not I.  I live in an ungodly, unlivable part of a big city.  I replace my locks monthly.  The only safe place I can go is the library, a rather long ride from my abode.  I see ghosts while I'm looking out the bus window.  I see houses literally fall down, at times, I see the cruelest outcome of Derwin's Natural Selection Theory.
In this pictuarama, the snow is ample.  It's fresh not black and mutilated by traffic.  This one also provides sound.  I hear the crunch of a heavy pair of boots walking on the snow.  A dog barks, a child cries out "Mom!"  and suddenly I hear shortness of breath and notice the picturama changes to an incline.  I know the lady speaks with herself, because she tries to remember what she forgot at the store.   Oh god, she remembered.  Her little girl, sits in a changing station in the women's room in the back of a little grocery store!  Dear God, she needs her picturama.
Then I remember, picturama's maintain a life of their own.  One way they live, is to fuck with the minds of the suckers.  I never claimed I was not a sucker.  So I looked under the damn rug, and found a key.