The first thing that one sees is the orangered sofa bed that's like an anchor in a portrait.

Move a little closer and you can see that it's a little old, the color a shadow of what it used to be (a bright, scalding red presumably) and tiny balls of fabric can be seen sprouting from the well-used material. There is a tiny stain in the corner, almost level with the cushion and which will hardly be noticed unless closely examined. Otherwise, the sofa bed is spotless - an indication of the meticulous nature of the gentleman in question. Or lady.

We back up and take another look at the room - and find that besides the sofa bed, everything else takes on a calmer tone. The table to its right is cream in color and simple in design. It has two drawers so understated they almost blend in with the rest of the furniture, and there is a cable socket at the top right hand corner. Linked to it is a closed notebook, only slightly misaligned; the stack of handwritten notes at the top left corner are neatly stacked against the wall and aligned with the side of the table. A single pen is snuggled against this pile of notes. A quick look at the top piece reveals lines of incoherent text slanted to the right. The writer circles important words and phrases rather than underlining them, and asks himself (herself?) questions about the notes by inserting question marks and scribbles. Whoever it is that wrote this writes, as a habit, with considerable strength. The impression left by these notes is that the owner - assuming the writer also owns the room - is less careful with his/her writing than with the layout of the room. Presumably, the notes are for private view.

The window above the table is shut. But since there isn't a curtain or blind, we can look out onto the car park below. From the intensity of the daylight and the number of empty slots, we can assume it is noon, or early afternoon, maybe a weekday. The leaves on the huge tree near the opposite block are still; it probably isn't a windy afternoon.

Gliding back to the center, we continue to inspect the room. Diagonally left of the sofa bed is a white cupboard about the height of a grown man, and completely without adornments. The doors are shut tight, so there's no way we can peep at its contents. The cupboard is relatively new compared to the sofa bed, and we can't discern a single scratch on it. From the fact that both the cupboard and the table are free of dust, we can gather that the owner wipes them regularly.

Beside the cupboard and leaning against the wall is a small black fridge. Once again, it is plain and minimalist, but this time there is a single magnet on the fridge door that says,"Be Nice Don't Fight", in curly yellow characters. The sound of the motor running the fridge is audible, so the owner must be using it at present.

By now, we are starting to suspect this is a man's room, given the general lack of decoration and the neutral color scheme. On the other hand, the room is exceptionally neat and free of dust, so there remains a possibility that the owner may be a she.

Our survey is coming to an end; the only item left uninspected in the room is the ceiling lamp that looks like the shell of a snail flattened and turned upside down. It bears a light grey color and is presently - obviously - unlit, since the owner is absent.

Having run out of things to examine, we wait patiently. Outside the window, the daylight softens and gradually mellows out into a pale yellow, and then deepens to an orange hue. The interior has darkened significantly, and the orangered sofa bed loses its prominence as it puts on a duller coat. The soft, steady rumbling of the fridge motor, on the other hand, seems to have taken center stage.

Finally, we hear the sound of footsteps approaching, followed by that of keys at the door. The door swings open, and we discern a well-polished black shoe slipping past it -