I remember how my deceased grandfather used to take what I, even at the age of 7, considered to be a disproportionate amount of pride in having fixed a small lock in the dialling wheel in order to prevent any of his children (but mainly the only female, who hapenned to be my mother) from causing an unaffordable, ergo undesirable, expense.
It's a tiny room, like I say. We can see a thick mist composed by grey fragments that become flexible but seem weak like an old lady's hair lock. It floats in the void forming a sort of (una suerte de) curtain that could anticipate both a thriller or a rather dull stoner's everyday scenario. For the sole reason that we are dreamers we are going to stick to the thriller option, only we are going to be left behind without learning the real end of the story.
Oh, and a typewriter. A red one, sure, but with latin alphabet because I still haven't mastered the required skills to write in the unwelcoming language of the country that has paradoxically insisted to be and remain friends with me since Day 1.
Do I want to make it a whole deal? Well then I just add a gramophone in the picture and I go wild and my body is not that of a man nor a woman no more because all it can do right now and during all the forevers that await those who are patient and sweet is wiggle its hips to the swing, with it, around it, on and on, endlessly enough for an awakened soul to understand.
Really messy hair and the image of our tongues entangled and warm, playful and happy because they let go of the tiresome need to always find the right words and guide them in the right direction.