ROOM TWO
Participants enter a second room.
The room is nearly empty.
Off-white walls.
Imperfect paint.
A mattress on the floor.
White sheets.
A bedside table.
An old lamp.
A half-filled glass of water.
A desk.
A chair.
A small black composition notebook.
An unsharpened yellow #2 pencil
A window.
Dust gathering in the corners.
The sound composition changes.
Soft breathing.
A shudder.
Fabric shifting.
A swallow.
A throat clearing.
A refrigerator humming in another room.
A cupboard opening.
A faucet running briefly.
A pan set down on a stove.
Someone chewing in another room.
Water moving through pipes.
A distant dog barking.
A car door closing outside.
Wind against the building.
Someone turning over in bed.
A stomach growling.
Footsteps overhead
A sigh.
The sounds are small and spaced far enough apart that participants may begin noticing their own.
The room offers very little to look at.
Many participants begin searching anyway.
The notebook contains blank pages.
The pencil is standard
and unsharpened.
The glass contains ordinary water.
Minutes pass.
For some participants, this may feel peaceful.
For others, unbearable.
Many discover they do not know the difference.
The longer they remain, the less clear it becomes whether the room is empty.
Or whether they have simply become accustomed to rooms that are full.
Nothing is hidden here.
Nothing is revealed.
A body sits in a chair.
Breath comes.
Breath goes.
The room continues.
*All sounds in this room were drawn from voice memos recorded over the past three years during moments of profound ordinariness.*