The next door looks like that of a medical utility closet, heavy and solid and metal. It's painted a neutral color, clean and unmarked but for the number seven scratched into it, exposing the bright steel of which it's made. Through the thin wire mesh of the tiny window embedded in the door, you can see every wall of the room the same mauve as the nail polish of aging aristocratic women. With only two pieces of furniture inside, the place is as scant as the cell of a nun. This is Rosie's room.
MUSIC PLAYING IN THIS ROOM
Rosie looks just like her name. She's plump and pink all over with cheeks and shoulders taut as new petals framing her accusatory, black, and thorny eyes.
Rosie has always tried to keep a fluid identity and erase all that she might have been nailed down by. She obscures her permanent record perpetually like a delinquent girl in reformatory school. The only thing she possesses which she can't undo with time, with scarring, with fire, with self-righteous indignation, is the tattoo that is the emblem of her true self; the Rose. It peeks from behind sleeves, hemlines of dresses, and the effervescent shock of her orange hair, forever for the trained eye to see.
Room Seven is brightly lit by an overhead light, identical to that of any suburban bedroom and has the same claustrophobic quality of a department store dressing room having seen better days. An unattractive smell makes the air thin; industrial cleaner, faint cigarette smoke, and rotting roses. There are no windows, and the only way out is through a door with a pressured closure like a joke of itself. Come in, and you'll never leave. Get out, and you'd better just stay out.
Secret worlds are places we visit without having to leave the space we're in. It could be a different era, a fantastic landscape, or somewhere you dream about, but getting there takes only feeling again what you felt when you were there before. Rosie considers herself somewhat of an expert on the subject, having been perpetually lost in secret worlds all her life. The empty walls of Room Seven behave live portals to your innermost locations. Take us to the lands you've traveled to in your heart through form submission of any medium of art to show us where you've been.
A young Clyde reveals himself to an unwilling Rosie.
We use all mediums of art (and some made-up ones) to bring each other into the secret worlds we've found. We spend a eons together inside spaces the eye can't see in this dimension, doing things that can't be done in this dimension, living different lives and becoming different parts of ourselves, and coming back with enough stories to fill bookshelves. The threads of experience happening in our secret worlds begin in Room Seven and continue in the Library. Follow us down our rabbit holes, and we'll follow you.