The sound stops dead at the wall, which is the point

An overhead plan of a small flat. Four rooms, a hallway, furniture as plain rectangles. In one room, concentric arcs spread out from a marked point and fill it completely, stopping hard at its walls. The other three rooms carry no marks at all.

Sound doesn't actually behave like that. This drawing isn't trying to be right about sound.

What's actually printed here?

A flat's floor plan with one room singled out by arcs that fill it edge to edge and go no further, as though the walls were the boundary of where the song was ever heard.

Nothing crosses the hallway. Nothing bleeds into the room next door. The other three rooms sit blank, not because nothing ever happened in them, but because this particular sound never did. It's a plan of where one song lived, not a plan of a flat — a different kind of boundary from a chair placed close enough that the listening only works with the door shut, which is about who's in the room rather than which room gets to keep it.

Why do the arcs stop dead at the walls, when sound doesn't actually work that way?

Because the drawing isn't measuring sound. It's measuring where the association actually formed.

Sound passes through a wall easily enough — a bassline through a floor, a chorus through a shared ceiling. But the memory of a song doesn't travel that freely: it attaches to the room you were standing in when you heard it, not to the flat as a whole. Drawing the arcs stopping hard at the walls is a deliberate lie about acoustics and an accurate one about attachment, which is the version worth printing.

What makes a good version of this design?

Where the marked point sits, and how much of the room the arcs are allowed to fill.

One source point, placed off-centre the way a speaker or a record player actually would be, reads more specifically than one placed dead in the middle. The arcs should reach every wall of that room and no further — stopping short leaves the room looking half-marked, and letting even a sliver escape into the hallway undoes the entire point. The other three rooms need nothing added to them; empty is the correct amount of detail.

Does this need to be a plan of my actual flat?

No — the room's shape matters more than its address, and inventing one loses nothing.

What the design needs is a room that reads as a room: walls, a doorway, a plausible piece of furniture or two, and one clear source point. None of that requires a real floor plan or a real song title printed anywhere in it — the design isn't naming what was played, only where. A drawn layout, close enough to true to feel lived-in, does the job a surveyed one would.

Does this work for a shared flat, or as a gift about somebody else's room?

Yes, and the meaning shifts slightly depending on whose room gets marked.

In a shared place, everybody could point to a different room as theirs in exactly this sense — the kitchen for one person, a bedroom for another — which makes the same design a small, specific argument about who claimed which space. As a gift, marking a room that belonged to somebody else works the same way a note pushed under a door names a boundary somebody else set: it's an outside view of a space that was never yours to draw from the inside.

What happens to the association once you've left the room?

The arcs stay put on the page; the room they describe doesn't have to.

Moving out doesn't undo the attachment — it just leaves it stranded, pointing at a floor plan that no longer has a key. That's a different kind of ending from a song retired on purpose and never played again, which is a choice. Losing the room isn't a choice at all; the song just outlives the address it was filed under.

Does it print well?

Yes — a plan drawing with concentric arcs is exactly the kind of flat, high-contrast line work fabric handles well.

The rectangles and walls print as solid flat colour with hard edges; the arcs should stay evenly spaced and consistent in weight rather than tapering, since a fine, fading line is the part most likely to fill in on cloth. Dusty blue, stone or a pale sand all suit a single-ink print — plan and arcs in one flat tone, with the unmarked rooms doing their work by staying empty.

How do I get one made?

Describe the flat at JustOG — how many rooms, which one gets the arcs, and where the source point sits inside it. Pick a direction, drag the crop frame, see it composited on the real garment, and it's made to order and shipped.

Designs other people have published are in the shop.

Three rooms on that plan never once heard it.