Crumpled letter peels down the pale, green tabletop, its scratchings weaved together in a spider’s web as rain trails down the gaping hole, split open like a gaping wound, as red ink seeps into the carpet. The clock rolls and rolls and rolls its lyrics of hollowness, an echoing, hulking projection of shadows, in a mirrored warp of concealed glow sticks. Circular reflections tiptoe round the chipped doors, shaped like a camera roll, the wardrobe tipping and dancing a tune of sorrow, of blankness, of despair. The black pictures fix silently on the walls, and the glass flickers with images of fire, as its matchstick lights the golden rush of a pirouette dancer, as the room stills and tilts with daytime.

The evening light leaks into the letterbox, its colors blue and violet and rainbow red, the streaks of water soaking inside the naked room, like a painting, as the furniture ceases to rock and perform, and the architecture returns to its place above the fireplace, as the flames roar. In the dark recesses of the remains, the literature is enflamed and burns an auburn tongue of triumph, of printed pictures, of waves of cream and orange and green.