100 Words on Writing in My Room Late at Night

My room is redder than red with cheap strings of lights filling the room with thinned blood, a heavy ether that is only strengthened in contrast by the blinding white emptiness of Microsoft Word staring up from my lap, and when I gaze away from it, I pick out flyers and cheap guitars and a shelf full of things all vying for contrast in that red haze. And when I finally go to bed in the next room, I can see the blue of the coffee pot light like the pupil of a red eye and then everything goes black.