This House, Accustomed.

The roof appears to be lined with silver, the light fixtures gilded with gold. The roof resonates this dull shine, and while you know it's all simply a construction in your mind, an apparition, more likely than not a reflection of a glimmer in your own eye, you can't quite put your finger on just why the roof appears to you this way.


The rest of the room remains that dull light brown you've always seen everything as. Although, the brown, as rust, appears like it is running. Someone has poured oil down the walls, all over you; and you feel dirty, but not because of the walls seemingly coated in oil - you feel dirty because you're lying on that couch. You've been there before, you've been one with that couch, and you and that couch are related. The couch is a dull grey, but now glows a brighter blue-grey.


You've decided you don't want to be here.


The trip to the next room is a winding trail in itself. Physically, you've been here before, you understand that it's only to walk around the ass-end of the couch, a strafing side-step to avoid the supporting pole and a few feet, if not less, to reach the doorway. But tonight it seems like so much more. Tonight, you've never been here before, and sliding your feet out from under the sheets that you've draped over the couch out of modesty, the fact you're not wearing pants, it all seems, and feels, like quite a task.


Out from beneath the sheets the cold bites, and blows. The air is fueled by a rich baby blue color, and a gaseous texture. It moves at ninety kilometers an hour. It causes frostbite, and you can see your feet, on which you now stand, colored a dark green. The first step is a surprise. The first step involves your foot hitting the fake-but-convincing tile decorated vinyl stripping, and as it bites back an even lighter blue, that envies the wind that now encircles your bare legs, emits from beneath the ball of your foot. Pressure sparks startle you. You must press on.


You reach out for support, and you find the couch again. Once you've regained balance and placed your foot carefully between the lines of the vinyl, which now ravel and squirm like a pit of snakes, you look at your hand; where it touched the couch its glowing blue-green, and it makes you sick. Your stomach feels resembling to the lines on the floor. It squiggles and squirms. It's birthing butterflies.


You shoot glances at your assailants, with the utmost sincerity and yet vulgarity in your eyes, as you pass the supporting pole; the pole is now melting.


You've finally reached sanity; you've found the doorway to the next room. While still on the outside, the simple doorway, of height a six foot male would have difficulty walking through, appears to you as something promised; twenty feet high, and an off-white yellow colour. However, when you step through everything stops, things have become more visceral. There's a breath-taking silence. The walls have stopped dripping brown oil, and the roof and doorway join it in becoming that same dull light brown that you've always seen everything as; the colour of your life. The air has stopped biting you, and has gone invisible; the colour of your feelings. Your steps have become boring, just your steps again; just like it always will be.

You enjoy the world for what it is for a brief second; but this is not your room, how can this be your life?


You lie beneath the covers of his bed, sheltering your half-dressed hide, and rest your head on his pillow. You close your eyes and shed a tear.


Your phone rings.