Dead Palette

The room is locked and sealed with duct tape. Wall to wall, covered in obscenity and seditious imagery, arranged not unlike a conspiracy theorists panel of carefully constructed ideology, but doubtful rather than solid in nature. The wall has only scant conclusions as of yet, but such conclusions are meaningful, if not concrete. An industrial window AC drones out a consistent rhythm and a 45 degrees Fahrenheit temperature. The computer is happy. Gallons of acetone remain open and organized neatly, the fumes sterilize conversation and elude to something of cease and peace, unreachable. The whole thing was designed to keep you guessing.