Myspace

Myspace, a room where your favourite record is always playing. You can put up all your favourite pictures. A place where your best friends permanently hang out. You can hear the echo of recent and current conversations. The bulletin radio tells you when your mate's sister's brother's half-uncle's band is playing next.

Myspace, like a student house with creaky boards and uneven walls. There is a dripping tap in the kitchen and a missing doorknob. Everybody's room is painted unalike. Some rooms are redecorated every week. People put pictures up and take them down; move them and give them to friends and share music.

Myspace, the rent is cheap from the media mogul landlord. The vast corridors of 'myspaces' of slightly substandard and shabby structure. Every now and then something pops and you get lost. A wall goes up where you once beat a familiar path to a friend's door. You have to find a different wonky staircase up to the floor.

Myspace, you can leave your door open, or shut it to yourself and your exclusive friends, but you can't escape the flickering neon lights above you. You get used to it and ignore it soon enough, of course. You never stop wondering at the architect of this eyesore of a construction. Why did they build the windows so weird?

Myspace, you know you will leave someday. Maybe you'll pack up your stuff, or just trash the place before you go. Maybe you will get yourself a second life? Or, maybe you will move to the real world where the you can scrape your real knuckles on the uneven wood chip walls. Taste the real sweet air while playing your favourite record in the park.