I keep the door to this room closed at all times. When I enter it in the morning it has a somewhat expectant aura about it, or maybe like I walked in just before it reached the punchline of a joke it was telling, causing it to bristle slightly at the interruption. Rooms have moods like people do, and this room sometimes appears to be waiting, a waiting room. Sometimes it seems to exist only as I perceive it visually, with a warped fisheye lens curviness and blurry edges. At other times the opposite, there's a crime scene feel to it, very documentary, starkly present like it's mustering an extra bit of realness in anticipation of painstaking scrutiny by humorless men in snap-brim fedoras and high-waisted trousers, men trained to pry secrets from uncooperative rooms. Sometimes when I open the door in the morning I find myself a little disappointed to see that it hasn't completely changed during the night, say for instance into Jeannie's bottle with its many colorful pillows and cushiony air of exotic but oddly desexualized invitation, or maybe into a 1970's pediatrician's office with its examination table of dark green vinyl topped with crinkly paper decorated faintly with smiling barnyard animals.