There is a chair, a table, an unmade bed. On all of them, and on the floor and the windowsill, are objects. Placed haphazard, but not piled, rarely touching each other, they sit quietly, patiently, as though you have interrupted them, and they are waiting to continue once you have gone.
By the yellowish light from the bulb in the hall, you see two frying pans, a cup full of pencils, three spools of thread, a child's doll, half a loaf of bread, a bicycle wheel, a candle, a handful of nails (lying parallel to each other on the chair beside the bed), a battered cornet, a woman's hat with a red feather, three books (lying open, face down, in a row on the floor), a photograph of a rose, a can of shaving cream, an empty but very dirty paper cup, a brown shoe, a broken clay pot, a neat conical pile of wood shavings, a carrot, a book of matches, four blue buttons, a piece of white paper cut into the shape of a heart, and a small grey stone.
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