The dresser is a mess. Every drawer is either crooked and open or missing altogether. Clothes from the early 1970’s overflow its wooden boarding and freefall onto a heavy shag carpet. A massive pile has accumulated. Collared shirts, collared jackets, jeans, and bright Hawaiian shorts. Burn marks are spread across most of these items, the owner was a smoker! A boxy television sits opposite to the pile. It reflects rainbow colours from a long and widening crack that runs vertically downward from the top of the screen. A shelf once hung level overtop the television, but one support has collapsed and caused it to rest crookedly on the top of its grey plastic frame. Maybe that is what created the splinter of colours? There are two windows in this odd, closet-like bedroom, both are broken, and one is boarded. Blue and red graffiti stain its grainy wood. The scene that these elements create, and others which I may have forgotten to mention, ooze a particular kind of confidence. Something, or someone, important must have been here. Was this the great mastermind behind Watergate, pulling on Nixon’s strings? Or the room of Abbie Hoffman, the perfect tomb in which he hid from the world? Or possibly, was this D. B. Cooper’s bedroom, a place where his true identity could be uncovered to the masses of ignorant rats and worms across North America? It all seems so likely, maybe it’s all three.