There is nothing really wrong with the room. It was an all white room. The walls were all painted white. Layers after layers of fresh white paint were painted each year. On New Year's Eve. He will put another layer of white paint. Then he will stay away for two weeks to let it dry, you know, let those harmful chemicals evaporate. He thought, the strange imperceptible fact was that the room was closing in on him. Sitting at the corner of the room was a grey steel bed frame pretty big for one person, and laying on it was a white clothed mattress, just the way he envisaged it, tight and taut and specifically the way he wanted it. It was standing on that white polished vinyl floor. Never sweep your floor. Sweeping merely redistributes particle objects, dust, dust bearing bacteria, dirt, germs, micro-articles, into the air, resettling slowly over time, drawn into the mattress, and the steel frame. And no matter how many times it was wiped down, it will persistently float to finally settle. So B never sweeps. He only mops. Twice a week. Wednesday and Saturday.
Now lying down laying his head to rest, he contemplated on how he truly felt, after all these years (after those years of ordinary living and saving that amount of money) after deciding to live in this strange lonesome way. It was the activity of serious consideration of the whys and the hows of the meaning of this or that which sustained him. Begone to those who say "do not think so much". . He always wondered why some could know without feeling. Once the cognition is awaken, and the logic struck and at once feels terribly anxious and afflicted. So better this than that.
