No last orders

Inside my heart, or maybe it's inside my brain, there is a big room. Come on in, take a look around, see if there's anything you like.
It's a big room, with wood on the walls, with big french windows and a view that's completely irrelevant; for what it's worth, it's a sea view, from high up on a cliff, looking out into the ocean. There's a big fireplace in the room, and some old photos up on the walls. All of the photos are of my friends of old, of people I came close to, if only for a while. The room is for my friends. There's a nice armchair for every one of them, worn out but still comfortable. There are sofas and pool tables, there's a bar in one corner with all the drinks we might ever need, there's a phone to order something to eat. There's cheap ashtrays on low tables, there's a deck of cards, there's a backgammon board with heavy chipped counters, there's an old CD player with only one speaker.
There's dust everywhere, and some of the chairs are now as if of marble with the dust of years masking their true colours. The room no longer looks inviting, but I'm still sitting there, saying hello to those that come in and go out. Chairs come in, but they don't go out. Even if the people are gone, there's always a chair left behind for them, there's still a photo of them on the wall. And their favourite drink is still available in the bar. And there's no last orders.