The floor is pale and yet full of texture. A Berber rug covers the floor in need of a stretching. In an array of gloss and
semi-gloss, shades of off-white cover these four walls and their baseboards speckled only by an occasional paint chip or faded
fingerprint. Entire sections are hidden by nearly a dozen posters of varying sizes and of varying content, mostly expressing
various political ideas, or taste in music. Shelves protrude from a wall adjacent to the door-- topped by a number of
knickknacks and decorative accessories. Yet nothing obscures the whiteness of these walls quite as magnificently as the
furnishings which fill the room.

Standing at the doorway looking inwards I see the twin-sized bed directly across from me against the far wall. Its sheets and
blankets are ruffled and in dire need of being straightened. Two pillows rest at opposite ends-- covered by cases made of
turquoise cloth. This color forms a pleasant matching contrast with the darker blues that plainly compromise the coloring of the
bedspread. Yet at one corner I see my sheet struggling to maintain its grip on a mattress-- a salmon-colored item that doesn't
seem to match anything at all.

The dresser is tall and quite old-- probably a 'hand-me-down' from one of my older siblings who has since left home for college
or some other endeavor. Its stands across from the foot of my bed and perhaps four more feet to its left. Its brown wooden
finish appears to be randomly-stained with an assortment of dusts and the syrup of sodas left upon its surface over the years. A
similar piece -- a stand -- sits idly against a wall opposite the foot of my bed. Upon it rests a 13"- inch black-and-white
television screen-- with dotted speaker holes carved out of its front. Oddly, three video ca ssettes sit next to the television-- but
there is no video cassette player in sight.



In my room there is no stereo nor radio yet a sound of content silence fills my space nonetheless. I hear the whistle of a
dishwasher nearby in the kitchen and the cyclical whirring of an air conditioner somewhere behind the unknown expanse of
walls that surrounds me. Occasionally, the crackle of laughter or the murmur of conversation will reach me from another room.

As I inhale, I can smell the fleeting aroma of potpourri sprays-- their specific flavor unknown. In my bed, I smell the toasty
warmth of newly-dried sheets and by my television, my nose can sense the exhalation of electronic dust. The background scent
of vegetables cooking fills my sense of smell and arouses my taste buds as well. And as the scent of a meal grows curiously
stronger, I become more and more distracted by ideas of might be in the kitchen. This urge to explore another room in the
house motivates me to put down my leaky ball-point, to rise, and to consider the other incredible experiences that await my
four senses.