You, the Window, the Room
You are in a room. It's gray, circular, and unfurnished; not even a hatstand rests near the door. To your left you see a window. It's one of the smallest windows you have ever seen, second only to the one in that hotel in Pittsburgh (you're never going back there again). Looking above your head, there is a solitary light bulb dangling from the high ceiling. It's flickering slightly.
As you are silently preparing a lengthy and what you hope to be a rather intimidating broadside for the madman who thought that one bulb only assisted by a small window could light an entire room you hear a sharp rap against the pane of the window. Though you were annoyed by sad state of the room's lighting, you are now doubly so because of the possible damage done to the glass. Even as you stride to the window, each step long and quick, you begin to wonder if you are taking the room's condition too seriously. It's when you begin over analyze whether the room's owner lacked the means to furnish it that you see a seagull take flight from the window sill.
Opening the window, you see and hear and smell the ocean far below you. Its expanse is more vast than anything you could have imagined. You feel that if you were to fall into its depths, you would be absorbed with barely a ripple to show for it; there would be no trace that you were ever there.
You slowly close the window, muting the ocean's monotonous clamor, and turn around to view your formally unpleasant surroundings. The light bulb now seems like an old friend and the lack of hatstand pardonable. Perhaps the room isn't so unwelcoming after all.