Nothing matters, according to one book on the shelf. Everything is water, says another. A third chimes in that peace is natural. The bong simply waits to be smoked.
A box spring would never fit up the narrow stairs to the apartment, and frames were expensive, so the mattress was on the ground. The green milk crate was the perfect height for a nightstand and doubled as a stool when needed. One gallon of water, a battered copy of Philosophical Investigations, and a phone were mixed in among the blanket.
The closet contained eight brown wool sweaters of varying ages, eight flannels of varying patterns, eight earth-tone t-shirts, five identical pants of varying shades of brown, and a pile of socks and boxers. Clothing, however, is a not well defined, and some would consider the suit that hangs in the closet to be a piece of clothing despite the fact that it is never worn. Much like a cartoon character, the wardrobe consisted of riffs on a single outfit with a chest of costumes on the side for special occasions.
An IKEA Poäng chair, a coat rack, and a pink crate. The crate contained some camping supplies like a tarp and hatchet. Sandalwood incense stood upright in a tuna can full of pebbles on the arm of the chair. Three coats: denim jacket for light weather, yellow lined flannel for medium, olive green military surplus jacket for heavy.
Christmas lights, these ones multicoloured.
The colourful lights framed the window in an aura of rainbow before connecting to the soft yellow ones that framed the room. Half a dozen spent roaches littered the copper ash tray on the window sill. "Banff National Park," boasted the engraving under the ashes. "Salvation Army: $2," read the price sticker on the bottom. "Sherlock Holmes Museum, 221B Baker Street, London," wrapped around the zippo next to the ash tray. No price sticker would be found on it because it was actually bought from a vendor hawking lighters on the street outside the Sherlock Holmes Museum.