In my upstairs room, Matilda, Heather, Sara, and Gertrude are still bleeding the monkey.
I go to church in my upstairs room. I do not go to church in my upstairs room.
In my upstairs room, your soured entitlement is murdering a prostitute. Later, my upstairs room will be haunted by the ghost of a murdered prostitute.
In my upstairs room, a family of squirrels has made a nest. They promised to leave the rest of the house alone if I ceded the upstairs room to them. They go in and out by teleporting. How can we be safe from teleporting squirrels?
In my upstairs room, there is a three-legged stool with a seat covered in zebra hide and legs that are the severed legs of one or more zebras.
In my upstairs room, there is a used guitar store. I browse there occasionally, but I never buy anything. The proprietor doesn’t seem to mind.
On the wall of the room at the top of the stairs, there is a formal portrait of someone. I can’t tell who it is because the face has been burned away by the caustic gaze of the Lord God Almighty.
In the room upstairs, my socks float in a big aquarium filled with a solution of urine and cat’s vomit.
The indigenous peoples of prehistoric Bolivia are not in my upstairs room.
My upstairs room contains a one-fourth size replica of Guam. I like Guam.
Whenever I have a nasty thought, a mouse dies in my upstairs room. My upstairs room contains many such mice, who die for my enthusiastic sin.
I have a garage. I keep my cars in it, along with the lawn mower and other relics of a life I once aspired to. Above the garage, my upstairs room churns and giggles like an ice cream maker.
I have a job to do in my upstairs room, but I’m not allowed to do it. It needs doing, but only by someone else. There are no volunteers.
There is no end to my upstairs room. There is, instead, a fleeting