Good Friday always makes me think back to the First House of Clocks. One of the more notorious parties we had there was the Be Bad on Good Friday Party. We crucified Ian and played Pin the Nail of Jesus. I remember someone shouting "the beer's on fire!" and rushing to put out the flames. You know it's a real party when you have a beer fire.

We had music in the old tinfoil covered playroom. The old playroom was crazy. I mean, really crazy. Tinfoil walls, strange paintings along with random items screwed into the ceiling. I had written on the walls and the floors. Blissfully hopeful things and abysmally awful things. The pictures on the walls didn't match up spatially with their frames. A Twister mat was the table cloth. It was me. Me then. Strange, cluttered, mismatched, bright, stark, broken, glowing, and scary. I'm different now. I am no longer that room. I am breaking out of a chrysalis, not sure yet of what I have become.

i miss the playroom at the old house_of_clocks
it was such a representation of me
i had all sorts of things written on the wall
the writings were all pieces of me
angry and happy
resilient and giving up
my tinfoil room
odd things screwed and nailed to the ceiling
plastic eggshells, pictures, etc.
gave it a odd feel
it was shiny
my tinfoil room
i'd see shapes in the walls
everything was bright
either reflective or colorful
or often both
the room was where i spent most my time
i miss that room
it was crazy like me

I've taken the following text out of my profile.

The walls in my room are covered in tinfoil. The ceiling has pictures screwed onto it (nails wouldn't hold). I've written on the walls and the floors. And various other surreal objects adorn the walls and shelves.

I've taken the majority of the tinfoil off the walls of the playroom. Every scrap I take off hurts. I've put so much of myself into these walls. I feel they are part of me. A reflection of my soul. Even now. Being ripped apart. They are a reflection of my soul.

I'm sitting in tears in a sea of tattered tinfoil. The playroom is dying. The bare wall staring hauntingly through the gashes. I feel this room still echoes our mindscape. The House of Clocks is dying. The playroom is dying. Dying. I cry. All this is ending. I feel I must soon, as well. The end of an era. A slow, painful death. Finally, a peace must come.

Tomorrow is another day. Another sunrise. We will sleep soon. We will awaken tomorrow. But, how many more mornings shall we wake? How many more can we? No longer can I bear these things. No longer can we fight the monsters. Those of us who are still meagerly fighting. Most of us have become twisted or meek or forgotten or lost. We are fading out. Like this place. Like the House of Clocks. Like the playroom. Our days are numbered.