Into the grinning jail cell of a hall you walk. The black sneaker streaks, they look like stick figure smiles; fake and unchanging, no matter how hard you try to erase it away. Speckles from the tiles would shine like freckles if the soil didn't coat the ground, faint, but always there. Expanding the horizon, green squares can be seen, "centered," yet never together, "symmetrical," yet never looking right, no matter how you stand. Nothing about this morose corridor would remind you of home.
Claws of light slash the off white walls, showing four awkward stains, almost as if a child tired to put up a poster using a knock off, wanna-be Colgate toothpaste. How jail-like it appears to be; the never ending quiet against the lonesome walls and frowning stains.
Cracks, like veins, line the arms of the walls. Scars of paint bubbles stick out like sores from where the paint dried while still falling wet like tears. The black windows stand out like bruises- unnecessary and dark. A basketball's low, slow dribbling thuds sluggishly, almost like a dying heart beat.
A giant's coffee stain half moons the ceiling tiles. The streaks from the floor frown from behind your back. The cracks on the walls look like someone tried tearing themselves out of the room next door and died trying. If the air wasn't so still, you could probably smell his deteriorating body. If the corridor wasn't so lonesome, you would probably feel his ghostly eyes following your silent footsteps. You almost wish that the monotonous basketball dropping was the beat that could still keep his nonexistent body alive.
There is nothing familiar about the off white dark. There is nothing motherly in the grimacing marks that look up at you with no eyes. There is nothing hopeful in the stillness and silence. This is not a place that you would call your home, so stop trying to make it mine.