The light was almost sunny enough, neither bright nor dim, but, well, just kind of strange. Colors didn’t seem quite true; not that they weren’t beautiful, but they somehow seemed ever so slightly drained. The shadows weren’t quite dark enough either. The air held just a trace of musk; and it all seemed as though it were leaking in from somewhere else.
The carpet on the floor seemed old, a tapestry of some sort that most would have hung on a wall, but it didn’t seem ancient, perhaps an original knockoff when knockoffs were still somewhat original. The wall paper seemed pre-Victorian, not tattered at all but kind of pretending as though it might be, perhaps as early as the morrow. Motes streamed on stray beams of tired light, seemingly observant.
He wanted to take a deep breath but couldn’t quite convince himself that it would be, well, healthy; not unhealthy but kind of heading in that direction. He found himself breathing, inhaling and exhaling, through his nose, as though he didn’t want to contaminate his tongue. His mouth felt dry and stale anyway. Everything seemed almost but not quite flat.
He wondered why.
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2012; all rights reserved