Little by little, the things stopped being able to fit. When the room was bare, you could see how white the walls were. He could look at them and daydream, pretend they were clouds. But he needed the stuff. The things. A couch, a TV, a rug, portraits covering the daydream walls. Things spilled out of the doors and windows. He tried to move but his feet had become chair legs, tables, and toys. He stacked himself on stuff, blending in to the pieces around him.