Thom lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He'd plastered glow-in-the-dark stars all over it; they hung over him, their strange green colour refusing to shine in the presence of the Japanese-styled desk lamp that mocked them with its power. The stereo beside jumped to a new song, and he rolled to regard the little player. He loved the little digital display on the stereo; he could put a song on and watch it, and literally see the time passing, knowing that these were seconds and minutes passed in enjoyment, listening to lovely sounds.

The stereo and the lamp sat atop a metal table, which, considering its imperfections, just had to have been handcrafted. By an unnoticed and probably underappreciated artist, perhaps. Passed down from father to son for centuries, always with the whispered story of the lost love that the artist had created the table for, the one that had been lost in a haze of red skirts. Thom didn't know what the story really meant, though; he'd bought it from a bric-a-brac market for $15.99.

He considered the rest of his room. Aside from the table with the stereo and lamp, there was a heavy old desk, made with the kind of wood that had been long ago banned from IKEA for being far too impractical. Papers were scattered across the desktop; so many unfinished wings and dreams, poems that he always began in a fit of inspiration and never finished so that no one could call them bad.

Live Performance posters advertising jazz musicians that hadn't toured (or breathed) for decades curried for favour across the walls of his room, each one carefully placed and spaced by Thom so that none was ever left out. The walls themselves were a rich purple – his mother had despaired over the choice, naming it far too dark. Thom couldn't understand her blindness; when lamps and candles spilled across it, the paintwork came to life with the warmest of summer hues … where was the darkness in that?

Rolling back onto his back, Thom sighed and wondered if he was strange. He was almost certain that normal boys didn't pay such attention to their rooms, decorate them with such loving effort. And then there was the tugging, nagging feeling that he should be doing something more. His peers were becoming accountants and business tycoons, while he lay about enjoying the surroundings of the room he slept in every night anyway. Smiling and giggling into his pillows, he swatted the guilty twinge away. This was what he enjoyed.