Some Call It Obsession

The yellow flower-patterned curtains smelled strongly of mothballs and long burned out cigarettes. They were drawn to the sides, spilling in bright morning rays of sun into the room. The apartment was an array of bright colors and patterns, wallpaper most likely patched together some decades ago by some previous tenant on an acid trip. She had previously moved the tarnished brass bed into the living room so that she could turn the bedroom into a storage room for an absurdly large vinyl record collection.

The room was crowded, bearing a stuffed bookshelf, and a yellow daisy patterned loveseat with a stop-motion explosion of cushion stuffing protruding from the opposite arm. A dented record player, well beyond dead to the technology use in modern household, rested on an old desk pouring out the preachings of Joni Mitchell. The wall next to the desk featured a number of newspaper clippings tacked to it, all dealing with one subject.

Some called it obsession.

She called it art.

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