Every morning I stand in front of it and see what I know in the mirror, framed by strips of photographs and keepsakes wedged into the wood of the mirror; dusty. My current odds and ends are spread over the white surface, something like my subconscious, and all the drawers are broken and lolling open with shirts and socks hanging out of them like loose tongues. The hairbrush that I never use is a faithful occupant, beside the jewelry box that never moves. A small gang of hair pins are loitering for months, two or three straying from the group but otherwise barely ever touched. I shun the china dolls perched on top of the bookshelf, the ones I never trusted for fear their glass eyes would one day move – they make me nervous. For the most part, I choose to curl up on my bed, close my eyes and imagine; imagine, the dresser dusted, drawers calm and shut. Perhaps the dolls change to pictures of sunny afternoons with friends. Maybe I find a use for the hair brush, or take an interest in the jewelry box. And finally I can wake up to pure sunlight pouring through my window panes, streaming over my sleep-drenched face – eyes open. But not one of the hair pins have moved; not one. I was just imagining… as if I want them to.

-----

Well you're in your little room
and you're working on something good
but if it's really good
you're gonna need a bigger room
and when you're in the bigger room
you might not know what to do
you might have to think of
how you got started in your little room

- Little Room, White Stripes