Sometimes This Room Is Someplace Else

Sometimes this room depresses the shit out of me. Especially in cold weather, because there's just not enough storage space for the extra bulk of winter clothing. It's a perpetual mess.
But this room isn't always the same place. It can be quite different.
Sometimes morning light hangs in distorted squares on the wall. Also, whatever's going on on the other side of the bamboo patch in the yard next door can have an influence over here.

Sometimes classical music drifts through the bamboo and lets itself softly into the room. I can't seem them from the window, but it sounds like large tropical birds are brought out in their cages on warm days. Their cries are startling, raucus, almost violent. Sometimes the metalsmith hammers out there, and the birds accompany him.
"It sounds like he's beating those birds," Wyatt said once.
Sometimes there's whistling. The notes are very precise, trilled in something like scales but not like music. I can't tell if the metalsmith or one of those birds does it.

In times like these, this room seems fantastic.