I am sitting in a room filled with things from another room.
Memories bound in the hollow lamp stand or the picture that now looks different in this light. On the walls, I see the paint of another era and I know. I know.
I am in a new writing space, but it is a good place. I think about the placement of this room compared to another room and now it all makes strange sense. Above me, the mountains and the valleys and the caverns in between that sprawl across the ceiling tell of a landscape still undiscovered.
Maybe if I keep peeling back the layers of wallpaper I will find what I am looking for.