Amber walls stick to the curtains, a dimly light bulb calls out in Morse code.
Miss-Matched curtains let in far too much light, passers-by jog and sweat past with little regard.

A throne sits regally, a cornerstone in the haphazard mess. Alternate dimensions and stories and lives and loves and tragedies all shudder in their plastic nests, some lonelier than others, sharing their royal display. Corners and nooks and crannies stow away the remains of yesterday, greedy for more. Garments of days gone by and days to come litter the way; letters in bottles whose destination was
Long forgotten.