ADAM GRAY

Man in a black suit sitting in a vintage room holding a cigarette, with guitars and a window in the background.

About Adam

Hello, my name is Adam Gray. Every day that I wake in Gray House brings fresh torments. From where I am in bed - disentangling myself from Evelyn’s dreams, hair, intentions, and drool-soaked floral sheets - I can hear the cacophony of music spewing inconsiderate out of every door as the morning rises. We writhe free of the woodwork of our house, insectile in this coffin which has cradled us for multitudes, and I am the archivist which must catalog the species found there. A compulsion, really. 

Everything is alive. This is the thought which sickens me, most. I may find mildew on the stairs, lichen on the faucets in the bathroom. I may find a genetic marker or two alike between these discoveries and the blood in John’s veins. I put up a chart in the lab once - the table of elements and those which were most prevalent in every family member - but I took it down, depressed. The velvet of this couch, the gabardine of this suit I replace after a night with Evelyn, the composition of a stubbed toenail. All become them, and there is no solace left in the inanimate world.

Adam’s bedroom is Room Three in the Clock of Bedrooms.

Now Spinning In Room THree