My dream room would look like the 1880 chicago worlds fair if it had sex with the medieval world and birthed a dumpster baby that would go on to develop a crack addiction in the slums of 1970's Tampa. It would be a fusion of hippie and tradlarp, an exibition of exotic and obsessive, and it would reflect my inner self for who I truly am. I would coat the floors, from wall-to-wall, with Persian rugs, line the walls with Chinese tapestries and Russian icons, install Indian beads and West African drapes over the closet doors, and line the windows with fine French curtains. I would hang Chinese and Japanese lanterns from the ceiling lights and mount Roman banners alongside my bed, Turkish rugs would array the ceiling and pad my collection of Byzantine icons. I would grow vines and mount candles and fill the room with scents from distant Ethiopia and Malaysia, and I would not change a thing about my room even if my wife complains (it's there to stay). Eventually, when I am graced with a firstborn, I shall move to a different room, and bequeath the dwelling space to him, for his to treasure and appreciate. And if he fucks up the room in any way, I will beat his ass