Fingers lightly brushing feel the fights this door has dramatized. Denting the wall with angry exits, shaking the frame with poignant slams. Even the floor beneath has felt the strain, with letters pushed under and words pleaded through the locked gap. The walls themselves could tell a tale or two. Impregnated with the smell of sweet thick freedom, sweat, hot food and spilt drink. Feeling warm naked flesh pushed up against cool green paint by another, as arms wrap and bodies writhe. In modesty Dali, Kurt and Hendrix allow themselves to peel from the white tac and fall to the floor. The desk shoved in far left corner epitomises friendships formed and enjoyed. With Xbox humming, life buzzing, cigarettes rolling and food moulding. This room symbolises the best of life for its owner. The only thing denoting that this four walled space is not a bachelor pad, is a colourful photograph of a girl smiling on the wall, and the faint smell of something other than testosterone dusting the air. Clothes crumpled and trodden on create a cushioned corner in front of the empty wardrobe at the foot of the bed. The bed with mattress weighted by the bodies which congregate to press buttons in quick succession on controllers, as they compete in console games. Chair ripped with exposed foam filling, stands as an island amongst the debris and dirt, lasting emblems of how once money bought things. One might say that this room resembles the mere filth and neglect of a student in halls, but this in other words means it is filled with nothing other than the life, love and living of a twenty year old boy.