There's a narrow walkway between the towering piles of magazines that leads to an armchair and, on an adjacent stool, a small tv.
These magazines began to wallpaper this room more than twenty years ago and, like the sheddings of old Enoch DeStiy's flaking skin, they have accumulated ever since. Like deviant tree rings, the piles of magazines have encroached inward, spread like the mould that now furs the oldest of them and cut off access to everything other than door, armchair or tv.
But old Enoch DeStiy doesn't need much room. Just enough to eat and sit and be.