And I had thought my own flat was nice.
Till I came across this door ajar, giving a sneak peak of its now-viral content.
And yet even before that, a well-guarded 2925 beckons, what with its fierce mild-steel gate, providing glimpses of its rich mahogany-coloured door frame, teasing a little, promising more.
And as if by industrial magic, I’m transported into a theatre of contrast; of dancing light and fleeting shadows, pristine white ceiling juxtaposed against a floor of grey marble with rebellious streaks, held together by mishmash pillars of colourless reflective mirror, stark black wall, and wooden laminates.
If the balance was a question, this was the answer.
And if magic was the disciple and sorcery the master, this room no doubt, is where the sorcery happens.
Silken bed sheets give rise to friction-less late night activities (sleep). Grey, not black walls, capture the shadow of whatever operatic performance is put up. Light is rendered pedestrian, if not moot, for sorcery happens in the dark, and light is but the unwelcome and necessary ingredient for organizational afterthought.
And into the power room with go. A place of a great many things for many different people. Bottoms-down, entrails active, constructively productive; the latrine is a place where revolutionary business ideas are born or just a place where the mind wanders off into other magical make-believe.
The setting is right, for with every head-turn, a different wall of a distinctive make and disparate colour translates into either a spark of brilliance or provides a fantastical sylvan backdrop.