A lattice of brown: umber; burnt sienna; hickory. All looped and woven between each other until they became a celling; a way to keep the rain out. Not that he saw it that way. The points created by the rendezvous of the wooden planks formed a hexagon with a crest that reached high into the Parisian skyline. Suspended from the beams, a collection of dream catchers in illuminating shades of yellow, envious tones of green and honouring mixtures of blues and violets. They swayed slightly from an unknown breeze - created by the man himself perhaps?
Beneath, a small square wooden table. Worn and used and marked in places. Eroded by over use. A little leather bound book sleeps closed near the corner with a black feather quilt. Not a diary - he wouldn't approve of documenting one's time on this earth in mundane written word; that much one could be sure of. Also a top the table, a blooming deep ruby rose; petals all gently unfurled; a stem without any thorns, to its side, a bright white waxy candle. Alight, with a soft glow and a shade encasing it, with many delicate patterns and rotations the glow of the candle shone despite the shade creating a pattern upon the wooden wall. Adjacent to the book, an old wooden chair with lightly scuffed scarlet padding. It had no arms. It was certainly not a throne - the man wouldn't approve of placing oneself above one's fellows, few and far between though they may be.
Below, the floor, scuffed and marked. Tracks are visible where the old furniture has been dragged and switched around the attic room. Towards one side of the room, the floor, splashed and splattered in acrylic paints. The epicentre of the colour appears to form around a chair, similar to the one at the table, the chair itself too is dotted with shades of paint. Whether or not this was deliberate remains unclear, he wouldn't want to inhabit a place devoid of colour after all. In the centre of the room, a small woven woollen carpet in pastel tones of English pink and periwinkle blue. Soft and young in this old room.
In the opposite direction, a double bed with a thick magnolia duvet scrunched up a top it. Two feather pillows lie on top of the duvet. A crimson bedspread sleeps forgotten on the floor. The soft sheets as buttercream are spread tight across the mattress. Clean and neat. The headboard is a rosewood crown to the bed, symmetrical and sweeping toward the heavens. Embossed into the wood, a circle with six waves pointing out away from the centre, they themselves are slightly asymmetric, the subtle imperfection would please him. At the foot of the bed, an old chest; beaten and battered with a padlock undone and hanging useless yet nothing is useless to him. It is clear the chest is regularly opened and allowed to fall shut with a potentially loud bang. Folded on top of the chest, a clean white night dress with a complex lace floral pattern at the collar and hem and just over the short sleeves. A little white bow tied neatly rests at the heart.
Against a corner, a large chaise lounge is shrouded in a paint splattered white sheet. Strangely, all the acrylic splashes seems evenly distributed like rain upon an uninhabited plain. The exception to this is around the centre of the sheet where no paint can be found. To the touch, the sheet was slightly warm as if an occupant had just left - a legacy left in his wake from a young lady he'd laid upon it. It's shape swept in smooth clear curves indicating a small window in the wall. Closed. The curtains left undrawn in the ever darkening dusk light. Through the lattice, an old winding street with a few small shops selling books and the like could be seen. He prefers to read than to write. A cafe. A little inn; Enfin à la Maison. A soft music can be heard from its large doors.
The subtle light of the moon that lingers over Rue de la Liberté outside cast a golden light upon the geometric thin beams of pale wood erect or slanted, creating a stand. An easel. Upon the easel, a small pallet, a thin paint brush and a milk white acrylic canvas. Blank.
His story waits to be created.