Wheel about the steeple of my dreams.

I've got these beige walls and curtains that can drive a person crazy. It spoils all else. It is, they are, a loneliness of lacking which saps the colour out of the objects it holds. All of the things within, these glasses, those pictures to the left, these little notes, my plants, several dozen midterms, myself, all sit in a solitary stillness that is anxiously stirring within the madness of this neutralization of vigour. And the funny thing about a person's head is that its encasement is somehow both within and far beyond whatever room it sits in and the incessant body it drags about, so that to itself it can really hear the music out in the living room on the other side of the door and on the other side of town, can really see the movements of hands and eyes and all the real colour there that moves them. But in here all these exhalations, everything, is painted beige.