The room is the only room where all things are touched and looked upon by me, only me … alone, sitting in front of a pile of worn clothing on an unmade bed as the dead were piled under the masterminds of mass assassinations. Books sit on chairs and lay on the floor where a bookmark claims the books are being read. I am alone where I can see shoes and boots that await to be worn and brought out unto the pavement where city lights light up the natural, dark sky. From here I see four walls and an open door that leads out of the room where all things are touched and looked upon by me. My cat purrs as he flings tiny pieces of paper out from his mouth, contributing to the usual composition of the room when this time of day is reached. The stereo is on, playing the music of a Quebecois. Her name is Jorane but she isn't Geneviéve. The music is the closest thing to Geneviéve's insurmountable beauty that I call Life. How refreshing! Nothing beats it, not even a warm glass of milk before going to bed! The phone has just rung and was picked up after one shrill ring. Sitting here alone hoping … nothing avails from this call. It has been many moments past, and my name is left unheard … but my room is the only room where all things are touched and looked upon by me. I'm sure things will be fine. They are always fine. They're fine just as this room is fine that is only touched and looked upon by me …