I walk past this window a few times a week and always feel compelled to peer inside. The dishevelled room, is a workmen's rest room and is inhabited by a fridge, a microwave oven, a heater and a couple of chairs.
And a table.
I've never seen anybody in the room. But I know there's a human presence because the table always has something on it. Usually it's a folded tabloid newspaper. Today it was a carrier bag, full of tomatoes.