The floor is cluttered, yet the room is desolate. Harsh orange streetlight seeps grimly through the window, and illuminates the single mattress cowering in a shadowed corner, suffocated by debris. Drawers, still full and ripped out of their chest languish about the floor amongst boxes heaving with clothes and books, mouths taped up and waiting to leave.
Footsteps echo and voices dance, bounding and fleeing through the empty air. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the feeble light before stepping over the threshold. Forgotten smells and dust catch in my throat, uprooted by the room’s cold sigh of solitude.
  The mournful silence is broken by heavy boots on wooden floors, and gruff low voices that grow louder. Suddenly my room is filled with bulky tall men and chaos commences. The bare bulb on the ceiling savagely springs to life, thick hairy arms lift the boxes drawers as if they were made of air.                     As I observe the mayhem, I can only stand and watch as my things are seized from my silently protesting room.    
Gradually, methodically, my room is emptied of its contents, and looks more desolate now then ever before. It is a ghost of what it was. It merely holds imprints of its former self, the dents on the floor where my bed once stood, the marks on the walls where my bookshelves were. The only signs of life are the countless footprints from the boots of the large men, and the fingerprints that dapple the window.
I think back to one morning, only a week ago, and unbelievably in the same room. Everything was different.  
I had left the blind open all night, and had woken at dawn to the soothing lemon-yellow sunlight glowing through my eyelids. I slowly open my eyes. The room was on fire. Every surface gleamed with heavenly light, the walls were melting and the mirror flashed and shimmered like a waterfall. I could sense every detail with a beautiful clarity; the texture of the wooden floor, the vivid colours of every object, the smell of the cool fresh breeze from outside.
I was drifting and floating in silken swathes of light and warmth. The feathery softness of my bed trapped and drugged me into a light, dreamless sleep…
The light fades and I am once again cold, and standing in my own shadow under the grim bulb-light. I take one last glance around the chilly white walls and dusty corners as I step towards the door. The light goes out and the room is alone, and with a final creaky wail the door is closed, and the dust slowly settles.