Radio.
The blanket smells … not necessarily good, but comforting. It smells of your home, your bed.
The rest of the room does not. Maybe the walls were concrete once - Yes, you can make out the grooves of cinder blocks - but a yellowish, greyish mold-like substance coats a shockingly large percentage of the walls. It oozes a colorless liquid. As you take this in, a long, slow globule of the liquid drips from the ceiling, landing squarely on the blanket.
A single, flickering, sickly yellow lightbulb hangs naked from the center of the ceiling, half-crusted with dried grime.
Oh, and there are other people in the room. Strewn willy-nilly, some sitting asleep against the walls, others looking more like they were thrown there, like sacks.
The urge to blink, to close your eyes, doesn’t seem as easily doable as you’d heard. Wasn’t it supposed to be a reflex, or something? Your eyes - eye - itches.
Your nose collides with something soft and a little bit scratchy. You don’t remember your bowl being so dirty that there was oozing mold in it.
Rip, tear, crack. The sickening noise echoes throughout the room.