All the words blot out the purpose and the meaning slumps in the unmentioned closet. The lampshade is green, the lightbulb is white, and the room is filled with an emerald light. Curious shadows peak from the armchair, solemn darkness nests on the bookshelf. Oh how the world lusts for light.
The bed is made yet used; the pillows still impressed by a lazy afternoon with a book and a cigarette. The ashtray is full. There is a matchbook on the nightstand with four black sticks left.
The window is half-way open. The green curtains move like a lover's hand on the back of the tope carpet. Beyond the smudged glass, under a half-moon dressed in blue night is a willow tree with a swing tied to it by a rope. Dead grass tickles the air by a flagstone.
A roll-top desk waits in the far corner of the room. An old chair casts a cage of shadows against a glossy Royal typewriter. A stack of papers is held under a small black mug filled with pens and pencils.
The mahogany door is ajar, and as the air passes through the window it creaks to and fro, swaying no greater than the length of a finger.
A cricket chirps beside the tree.
There is a sudden gust of wind and the green curtains sprawl like sea weed across the room. A mist of ashes tumble and orbit over the bed, out of the corner a small page swift as a sail swings over the curtains and lands on the floor beneath the lamp.
On it are two words:
"No more."
The wind subsides and the curtains fall into a slow sway.