The bed seemed to be in the middle of the room, sort of. Over-sized, white and sky blue sheets, maybe hints of grey. The sheets were tousled but not messy. Obviously used, enjoyed. I had been there.
The room was encased into a creative’s lair. The lighting dim. The walls were lined with oft handled books, row after row rose up around the bed like elegant, protective petals shielding their treasure from only those meant to reach it. Spines well worn, muted colours, varying shapes; I couldn’t see their titles but I could imagine them. You didn’t have to have read them all to feel what they gave.
To one side there was a kitchen, it too was well used. Dishes from the last meal hadn’t quite been done yet; something else had pulled their attention. Wine glasses stood empty, a few drops still lazing at their bottoms, the marks of lips still there.
There was utter quiet but such an energy. The energy at it’s most base, was dark. Shame lingered in the air but it’s origin was elusive. Searching, wanting, expanding, and next were also there. It was a place I wanted to be but worried about why. So I ultimately left, but now I want to go back.