Inside the Room Called Mind.

you may find a few chairs, a table, and an occasional body. the table is made of old warped wood, twisted and knotted. on it sits a single ashtray with a still-burning cigarette inside, but no one in the room smokes. a head lays collapsed on the table, next to the ashtray. curly brown hair rolls out across the wood, past the used up pencils and erasure shavings. his body sits in the chair, illuminate by a candle tied to the slowly crawling blades of the ceiling fan. each chair leg is different than the two next to it. his chest lifts slightly; the relaxed breathing of one allowed to rest. his fists are still clenched under the table, palms stained with paint and sweat, cuts along the fingers. each of the walls is a different color, still dripping wet. the first is green, with neatly framed pictures of dish-washing machines and light-bulbs. the second is purple, with gold coins taped into patterns like dragons and smiles. no one pays attention to the third wall. the fourth is red, turning brown as it dries. stacks of notebooks scatter around the white tile floor, a few labels showing face up read: "Thoughts, Words, and Shopping Lists", "You Won't Read This, It's Too Long", and "Things You'll Want to Remember Later". the latter is missing a few pages. there are three picture mixed in with the notebooks.  the man's family, a fond face, and a goat chewing grass. on the first picture is written "wall two." on the second "wall four." and the third "wall three." the man sleep talks, yells at the fourth wall, and growls at the spinning candle. the candle disapproves.