Framed ads that read, "The Finely Calibrated Vomit Vendor," and "Calluses of my feet," are strewn along a faded white wall. Most have gathered dust and hang crookedly on ancient nails. A map of "Irelande" winks its eye as islands shaped like potatoes prance around its grey fašade. An old tattered chair sits in its light tan skin. A lamp stands naked without a shade as it leans toward the opposing wall. A cracked window is dressed in pale green curtains adorned with elaborate white roses and vines. A chair sits to its side and its satin orange threads glisten in the invading sunlight, as a computer sits lifeless in the corner. Its wires have grown like ivy creeping in and out of the screen's blank face. An oak desk lies underneath another cracked window. A swivel chair purchased from Staples sits the golden strands of sunlight beaming in through the window's rectangular frame. It seems out of place within the room's outdated, whimsical interior.
A mirror on the next wall reflects unfinished hardwood floors that bend and crack a warped smile with age. The room is silent. It's four busy walls that seem to have been stopped in time, harbor a lost soul seeking shelter from the verdict of the unyielding summer sun. Though it's width is a mere 10 feet and it's height slants with the slope of the house's roof, the room's enormous presence is felt my the unexpected stranger. It seemed to have a mind of its own; a personality that could not be shattered by the most careless of visitors. The stranger takes off his corduroy jacket and clothes the once naked lampshade with its soft suede interior. He then lies on the lonesome floors and nods away in the comfort of the room's embrace.
On July 13, 2004 a man fell at my rooted feet and opened my squeaky doors and walked upon my creaky floors.