This mint-colored room with its high ceiling and its low expectations, with barely enough to fit me and my void, a one-sided bed and those books I've never read.

So quiet, so somber.

Half childhood memory, half prison cell. Full time mausoleum.
Its greenish walls lined with cobwebs and ants, and a thick layer of dust and mold, the kind to clog up the lungs. The silent decay of a vacant space inhabited by the recently dead.

Only, I yet live.

Half breathing through my bent nose, in my comfy bed with my ugly thoughts, while the spiders and ants watch me with intent, like birds of prey dancing through the air.

Quietly knowing something I don´t.