At the end of a hallway
There are two closed doors which face each other
Between them, on a small table against the wall
The soft radiance of a lamp hollows out the gloom
Of that windowless region
It is known that the door to the left opens on a closet
Filled with junk
A collection of detritus so high and dense that it might never be Explored completely
The other door leads to a room wherein dwells
An accretion of loathsome utterances
But the crux of the matter is not to be found in the contents of the Rooms or the doors, nor in the lamp or the hallway itself
No, the main thing is that I predicted them all
This place and its objects are exactly as they should be