It's my bedroom. Every morning is unfamiliar. The magic of the new. The tedium of the next day. I close my eyes and sleep some more. Screw the room.

Note the overt hostility to the room. The subject does not describe it as comfortable or not, but rather how unhappy it makes one feel.

Deciduous. Some sun, some shade. Sloping up; maybe in the foothills somewhere.

Straight, nothing special. Just a footpath. Packed dirt.

Creek. Shallow. Clear. Some rocks visible in the sunlight.

It's a battered tin cup.

Yellow metal. Tumbler lock. One of the multitude of useless keys in the world; no one will ever know what it unlocks again.