Subscribed? Enter the dimension where this room still belongs to you here.

Once upon a time, Room Eleven was immersed in the 1920s. The lampshades were scalloped with velvet and fringed with silk, and the Victrola next to the rolling bar played Eddie Cantor's Makin' Whoopee, all night long. This room has been a vandalized emporium of rare and primitive ocarina and hash smoking instruments, the furnishings made by hand with found items from the ecotone between jungle and junkyard. It was even just a minimized record store with a comfortable bed, a television, and a mini-fridge, at one point. Horror comics littered the floor then, and the smell of dried cum stuck to the air.

Room Eleven has changed more than any other room in Gray House. The walls, once covered in pristine graffiti murals of some tropical wilderness, encircled clean country-chic decor in muted tones from Ikea. Before that, it was cluttered with a wood burning stove and easels, cardamom and dill weed spilled on butcher blocks marred with knife wounds. And before that, it was home to velvet posters of Jimi Hendrix, bean bag chairs, and stripped wires spilling out from stolen speakers. It's had about as many makeovers as you've ever had moods in a day and that's because it's yours. All the worlds you have yet to remember you've lived in are haunting the bare walls of this room like tacks the management has refused to remove.

This is your room, and since you were lost, it's been empty. The door is gone from the hinges completely, and don't ask me why. Your walls are a dirty, eggshell white surrounding the simple planks of the heavily weathered white-washed hardwood floor. No windows. Electric innards dangle from where there was once an overhead light fixture. Littering the vacancy of the space are items you've left behind, dusted with the regret of your absence. What the Gray Family remember of you is as spotty as what you remember of them, but as to where the anchor of time and love can be dropped, these objects are of no small import.

Room Eleven has changed more than any other room in Gray House. The walls, once covered in pristine graffiti murals of some tropical wilderness, encircled clean country-chic decor in muted tones from Ikea. It was cluttered with a wood burning stove and easels, cardamom and dill weed spilled on butcher blocks marred with knife wounds. And before that, it was home to velvet posters of Jimi Hendrix, bean bag chairs, and stripped wires spilling out from stolen speakers. It's had about as many makeovers as you've ever had moods in a day and that's because it's yours. All the worlds you have yet to remember you've lived in are haunting the bare walls of this room like tacks the management has refused to remove.

YOUR OLD JOURNAL

This is where you kept your thoughts when you lived here. It's full of your dreams and experiences and the letters we exchanged when you were Home. All of the things it was important for you to remember once that you've since forgotten.

UPCOMING

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