Room 212
A dark, musty, and utterly colorless room. What's left of the carpet has been burned by years of neglected cigarettes, and the peeling wallpaper has yellowed with the passage of so many grimy desperate tenants. Yet there is somehow a sultry quality to this drab place: the lazy tones of a saxophone pouring in from upstairs; the gently-floating dust, caught in the lightshafts streaming through the window-blinds; the dust rising, falling slowly...
Burma is here.
Exits:
out to St. Charles Avenue
door to Bathroom (not playing)