Matthew's room is the only one with a peephole and no number marking its position on the Clock. The doorway to Room Two is obstructed by metal trays of uneaten food collecting like it were that of a junky's hotel room. When anyone enters, they're kicked aside with a reckless clang that echoes in the Courtyard. The door itself is painted with a matte black finish, damaged around the knob by accidental smears of the oils Matthew uses to clean his paintbrushes.

MUSIC PLAYING IN THIS ROOM

Matthew's mouth is often hung open in boredom over his starved frame, naked toes wiggling absently. His clothing is thin and holey, a crust around him like a cocoon he should've long since shed, stark charcoal against his pallid face. A head-aching chemical smell wafts from him, oil and grease spread in wide circles on the thighs of his designer jeans. His skin is marbled with the same positive and negative space as his room. His tattoos mark what patches of his skin are scarred enough he can't cut through the tissue.

His hands are dirty and smeared with flecks of paint, a livid purple crystal ball rolling between his long fingers. While his hands are nimble, he is missing the third finger of his left hand. It ends at the top knuckle, severed and neatly sewn and healed into a tight stitch.

COME, CHILD

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Almost anything that isn't black in the room is white, the contrast of a rebellious teenager still learning about duality, demonstrating how Matthew has failed to mature beyond this mindset in the several years that have passed since 17. The bluish-gray glow from the snowy screen of the television barely lights the darkness of the room. His carpet appears as if it was ripped out of a derelict casino and is poorly installed, exposing the House's original white-washed hardwood where the floor can even be seen. Where it can't, it's cluttered with thousands of items of unnameable value.

As much as the room is filled with everything he's stolen and stowed away, it's full also with the same frantic paranoia which is the compulsion to collect such things, to begin with. Each corner of the room is piled with treasures hidden among the fear of their discovery, raising electrical currents along the skin of anyone inside.

Some of us are better with our hands than others, but all of our fine art and photographs make their way into this room to clutter the floor and be propped up against the walls. Share your own visual art with Matthew to see it posted in here.