The room is gray.
Sometimes it's red.
Sometimes it's blue.
Sometimes it's some other color
befitting the space as designed and thought off by the person who built it.

There are people.
They speak in different tongues.
Some whisper.
Some are loud.
Some are distant.
And there's someone constantly humming through little plastic boxes in a soothing tone.

The blender whirrs.
Coffee beans churn.
They let everyone know it's them.
Sometimes its women cackling in the background
surrounded by noise to which they sway
followed by a cold one set in front of me to quench my thirst.

And there's me,
filling a void,
warming a seat,
keeping space occupied,
lost and reflecting.
The day rolls along like the second hand
And the night whispers by an attempt to seduce my emptiness.