There is a desk cluttered with notebooks, pens, and pill bottles. There are two beds, a couch, and a minefield of clothes between them. One bed used to be my brother’s; the other was my great-grandfather’s. My family is full of amateur hoarders. The walls are decorated with sports memorabilia and photos of my dad playing golf - the rest of us are confined to one table. This was his office once, but now he sits at the dining room table.The couch is covered with blankets, all belonging to my dog, who steals more space in this house than me.

Its dark, nothing is seen due to my black out curtains, the only thing keeping me from falling asleep is the nosy fan that can’t keep the heat away. Having to include another portable fan to try and keep these sweats away.

Lying in this bed, this bed of flowered sheets freshly washed yet everything but warm and inviting.

I try to hide my body within the covers as to not be seen by whatever maybe lurking in the dark. I don’t have much in my room yet the way I feel, its everything but empty.

It's dim, not so dark that I can't see, but everything is dark. There's dust on the drapes, and art on the walls. not the professional- looking sort of art though, just a shit ton of manic looking sketches, and lists and little papers, (supposedly ones with any sort of sentimental value). A hand full of photo strips too, which maybe bring a more overpowering sense of nostalgia than I'd like. The curtains have pins, enamel pins, and safety pins, and band pins, and homemade ones. There's yellowy light creeping in from the crack under the door, and music blaring.