The Tale of teal and Marie.

If I ever became the ruler of this country, thought Florcus as his arm dislocated for the umpteenth time, the first thing I'd do is rearrange this country to coordinate with the rest of the world. Who numbers beginning from the top of the house? I mean, really?
Harold was at the top of the stairs by now and using the other arm to ease the mammoth bag over the last step. He let himself into the room and the journey was almost worth it.

The room was fairly small, wider than it was long, impeccably clean, but with small peels of teal paint near the ceiling revealing an orange and white wallpaper. Small marigolds set off the teal, but the real attraction was the window. It must have been fifteen foot in diameter, a perfect circle. Harold pressed up against it and could see the crowds moving around beneath his feet. The city moved, restless and humming in the broad sunlight. You could see the whole town, the river with the white ornamental carvings, the parks with tall oaks and everywhere an air of New-World optimism. Florcus decided to keep the room.

He had mail already. It was from the birdlike man downstairs and he opened it.

'Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace.'

In smaller letters below, 'Victor Hugo.
Florcus had always liked the way the French named their children, with the men named Marie. Victor Marie Hugo. Henri Marie de Tou-louse-Lautrec. Harold Marie Florcus.
It would never stick.

The teal doorbell rang, shaking the small bone china on the stand beside the door.