I have foisted my life upon this room. Stacks of books line the walls like sandbags. The barrel chair by the window holds my shape and the oils from my hair and skin. My footprints stay in the hard carpet: archaeological evidence of a man of average height and weight who covered every corner of the room when he paced. And what of the closet door on which I carved a poem about lost love, drunkenness, and the ocean? It stands like the redwoods, while I have passed through years of small triumphs, little battles, and enormous loss. I suppose I am leaving something here — less ambitious than pyramids, far less beautiful than hanging gardens. Someone shall find me someday, tidy up, paint over me, reupholster me, wash over the footprints like a tide, and make it clean for the next bright body.