He was living the words his mother told him ‟Your room looks like a bomb has hit it″ she always said.
She was right this time, an explosion had happened. His shirts, trousers and jumpers were the so-many-dead casualties of war.
His shoes, the smoking shells of bullet husks. The furniture was torn architecture and his books were flattened dividing walls that could keep the shape of space and safety no more.
He sat alone in the corner absorbed in sound, thinking about the metaphor he was conjuring that was simply a romantic excuse for an untidy bedroom, and wondering if he would put this on his blog.