This is all true.
Late one night, I was writing the tricky part of a new story. Tricky parts always make me hungry, so I went down to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal.
Faint, melancholy piano music drifted from the kitchen pantry, like the soundtrack from a sad and distant dream. I opened the cabinet door and the music grew louder.
There, in exactly the box of cereal I was hungry for, was a tiny red door with a brass handle.