There is nothing here.
Only a young man, his long beard sticky with the juice of an apple, sitting on a couch.
His eyes — like mine — are brown, and weak.

Otherwise the room is empty.
The floor is carpeted, a neutral shade, ecru, nutria.
Light comes in through the windows.
Outside it is snowing, which catches the light and makes it directionless.
There are no shadows in the room, except perhaps under the couch, and there’s not enough space there for a cat.

Three of the walls have windows, and face outward.
The room looks out over a cliff.
In better weather the view would be spectacular, but in the snow everything is just snow, white and hard on the eyes.
Which is part of the reason his eyes are weak.

The fourth wall is blank.
No doors, no windows, no seams of wallpaper.
And the wallpaper is the same uncolor of the carpet.

He eats the core of the apple. The seeds are bitter.
He had a watch, but he broke it against the windows.
When he closes his eyes there is nothing there.
White, black; black, white.

But in his belly a tree is growing.