The Room I’m In Right Now.

Hard wood floors and the furniture is spread out against the walls. Records in an old wooden lemon box. The label reads: “Silvercraft Ventura County Lemons”. A tall bookshelf with VHS tapes.

Outside the window there was a screech of tires and the crunch of a car hitting another. She’s sitting with her legs up on the red painted chair looking out at the people gathering around a blue Land Rover that was hit. The other car is gone.

The curtains are thin red dyed cloth breathing softly in their twin framed nooks. They are set at a wide angle from each other with two or three feet between. In the middle is a hanging vase with dead blue hydrangeas and below that is a table wearing latex paint in lazy seagreen.

Each of the three doorways leads to another space, slightly visible, but peripherally interesting.

Breathing with the curtains and the soft light from the gray day outside against the walls is the sound of The Velvet Underground’s “Sunday Morning”.

Plastic bags of clothes are heaped against the wall opposite the futon couch that has a blanket slung over it—brightly colored, like the ones from Peru—and on the old walls a built in ledge stretches across as trim. A small plastic rabbit almost isn’t seen where it sits.

The room I’m in right now is large and things are inside of it, making it a room.


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