When I was young enough to be drunk 24/7, all of my dreams involved trains. I also had the subterranean rabbit warren of seedy bars, betting shops, tobacconists, watch repairers, clothing alterers etc. at Wynyard station as top-shelf nightmare fuel. The main concourse to the (IIRC) three levels of rail is on a slope, so you never really know how deep you are, and it branches off into a network of other dismal underground shopping arcades. You can surface hundreds of metres (and half a dozen beers) away from where you went in.