My bedroom is rough and warm. It is being remodeled, or I have just moved in at the time that it is needing to be remodeled, with paint and plaster peeling off the walls exposing big chunks of lath underneath. The floors are concrete, stained and chipped, piles of white canvas tarps everywhere like somebody had started working it, maybe me, a long time ago, but hasn’t gotten far. The buckets in the corner are full of dirty water and old, rusted tools.

It is a large room, and the door is shut. I am alone and feel no desire to leave the room, though I hear girls’ voices in the hallway and so crack the door to find that I am living in a boarding house, all of which is in much better condition than my room. The girls do not notice me.