Mydormitoryroomisonthesecondfloor.Itissmallandcrowded.Thedarkgreenwallsandthedirtywhiteceilingmaketheroomseemdark,andthusevensmallerthanitis.Asyouwalkintotheroom,youarestoppedshortbymybedwhichfillshalfoftheroom.Thetwolargewindowsoverthebedarehiddenbyheavydarkgolddrapes.Againstthewallonyourleft,pushedintoacornerbehindtheheadofthebed,isalargebookcasewhichiscrammedwithpapers,books,andknick-knacks,Wedgedinbetweenthebookcaseandthewalloppositethebedisasmallgreymetaldesk.Ithasabrownwoodenchairwhichseemstofilltheleftendoftheroom.Stuffedunderthedeskisawoodenwastepaperbasketover—flowingwithpaperanddebris.Thewallabovethebookcaseanddeskiscompletelytakenupwithtwosmallposters.Ontherighthandoftheroomisanarrowclosetwithclothes,shoes,hats,tennisracquets,andboxesbulgingoutofitsslidingdoors.EverytimeIwalkoutofthedoor,Ithink,"NowIknowwhatitisliketoliveinacloset."