[ CW ] Describe the room you 're sitting in , maybe r/doodle will sketch it . This would be a test of how someone processes your words .

The room is divided into concepts, generalizations of order instead of hard-nosed applications of it; it ’ s not particularly interested in specifics like location and ease of access so much as a vague accounting of things. 
 
 On the eastern wall there is a large window that goes nearly from one corner to the next. Through mismanagement, I ’ ve broken one frame and the other is nearly always kept open a foot in a desperate grab for frugal cold and pleasant noise pollution. It looks out over some boughs ( having been a piss-poor Webelo, I couldn ’ t tell you the sort of tree ) from the floor to see a sickly urban creek—crawdads, minnows, and refuse—and a small and purposeless field situated in the middle of a suburban landscape. The field is home to a small family of smoke-colored cats that, when I ’ m especially hard-up for entertainment, I collectively refer to as “ Kitty Saga ” and ascribe motivations to. Shabby tan curtains reach from the ceiling to the floor. 
 
 To the north is a bare wall ( save for a few unfortunate inky smears on the pale white ) against which the queen-sized ‘ desk ’ is pressed. In the fashion of a knockoff Proust, this is where most of the studying, writing, reading, and all else gets done in an awfully unhealthy semi-recumbent posture. The western-facing side of the bed typically has strewn about it a notebook or two, a stopwatch, a pen or pencil, and whatever books I ’ m reading at the time. Five covers ( among which is a decrepit American flag that ’ s been around since before puberty ) are scattered about four pillows. One of these pillows is serviceable. The others, they are terrible and I constantly hurl the promise of replacement at them, yet never quite work around to making good on it. Coffee stains riddle the blankets and checkered sheets—and books, and floors, and most other things in my proximity—due to a strangely mystical belief that I can simultaneously balance a cup on my knee and shake said knees in some ADHD-addled spasm. Much like the lie of the pillows, I often assert that I ’ ll get around to stopping that. 
 
 A folding-screen closet is typically closed on the western wall, but today it ’ s vomiting clothes and forgotten ( but not so antiquated that I can justify throwing them out ) electronics. Fixed above the hanging coats, dress shirts, flannels, hoodies, a jersey or two, belts, ties, and a few other doodads is a wire rack on which sit a nice wooden chess board-box ( marred by notation taped on ) and a jacked-up violin case. Next to the closet, balanced precariously in the corner, is a cello, bow still propped inside the bridge. I ’ m bad about cleaning the rosin, and so a fine coating of dust covers the fingerboard. There ’ s a record player ( which acts as a radio and a secondary nightstand when Cervantes isn ’ t up to it; there are no records in the room ) at the foot of the bed that borders the closet. 
 
 On the southern facing wall, perpendicular to the window, a bookcase is stuffed several layers deep with books within, below, and on top. Here ’ s one of the few places where I ’ ve stringently applied a philosophy of order and established a bastion of sanity: on the bottom are technical books; above that, Dutch and Russian history, and biographies; on top, the few books I keep to just look at after having read, as well as the books that I say I ’ ll read and will continue to say I ’ ll read. A couple of hand-carved polar bears ( one standing up to survey the titles, the other on all fours more interested in the wood of the case ), a magic 8-ball, and a few bottles of ink are interspersed about the books. At the base of the bookcase more books spill out, mostly the slightly less cared for RPG rulebooks. Adjacent to the bookcase is the suggestion of a desk beneath a choked warren of bric-a-brac. 
 
 Next to the bed is a padded black chair ( the nightstand that holds a variety of books that are in the purgatory between being read and being on the bookcase, as well as the “ Don Quixote ” -coaster ( now so pitiful that the backmatter is in a constant state of looking like reprocessed paper slurry ), and an ugly lime-green reading lamp ). In the center of it all is a large printer box being used as a sad imitation of a kotatsu. Scattered across it are Ozu and Naruse films separated from their collection cases. Above, a light fixture that looks like a pale breast. Between the closet and desk is a fifth wall that holds the door. Stains of ink and coffee trail beneath the door knob.
