When I was a teenager I used to stare at a single strange shape in the wall of the shower tile as I showered. I somehow knew it would be significant when the shape's meaning changed. What had long looked like paunchy, monstrous face with cavernous features one day simply transmografied into a phallus. Don't read too much into this.
It so happens that, like the narrator, I am somewhat involuntarily spending all day in a room of yellow wallpaper, covered in a disjointed mix of shapes. I also spend a lot of time alone with things yellow (he says cryptically) and I don't mean journalism. This appreciative review is like a yellow placeholder, should one of us disappear, perhaps at the bus station, where I could still enjoy reading it.