3 compartments

Here is a compartment suspended in air. There is nothing holding it there. There are no wires, stands, or nets. It is not floating and it is not sitting upon something. It is utterly suspended. It is as if it were in zero gravity but it is not. It is in the shape of a rectangle, much like a train's boxcar. Although, it is not red, or charcoal, or rusted brown. In fact, it is not any color. The question it invokes is not one of existential nature. It is a question more related to Schrödinger's cat. Are there but more compartments inside of this suspended compartment like an onion? Or like a submarine? Or like the pages of a book? How does one imagine the guts of a suspended compartment? Painted in airbrushed, graffiti style lettering on one wall of this compartment are the words, 'Honk Your Lust'. It is a testament to a time when sex was not repressed. It is an indictment of fat, New York style, truck drivers everywhere. It is cue to young lovers and old lovers alike. Flaunt your desire! Tune up your want! Pull down your pants! The rest of the compartment is plain. There is no flare to the carpet. There is a pedestrian feel to the ceiling fan. There aren't tassels on the lamp shades. Everything else in the compartment is repressed. The doors to this compartment are saloon style. They swing in and out as the patrons enter and exit. I sit alone at the bar but I am not the outlaw to whom everyone's eyes flash as he makes any sudden movement. I am the one who dreams about being the outlaw. I imagine myself riding through town at a wild, radical pace, bills flying out behind me, still crisp from the freshly robbed bank. I steal the sheriff's horse and take his pretty wife as a hostage. When the bartender asks me what else I would like, I don't know what to say.