I don't put any paper on my desk unless I have to do something with it -- pay a bill, for example. Otherwise, it goes into the trash or the filing cabinet. Addresses and phone numbers are added to the contacts list on the phone, which works because I share an Apple account (and its cloud storage) with Himself. We stopped losing contact information in 2014, when the iPhone came into our lives.

Himself occasionally dumps paper on my desk, usually because he can't be arsed to file it. I have decided that this behaviour is tolerable because it could be worse: at least he's not tossing tax bills.

Donuel's futility room sounds familiar, from the yellow paint on cinder block to the dog-poop brown linoleum and the lighting by Jerry Rig Inc. My Dad's basement was like that, including the clutter; his included 30 years' worth of LPs in mildewed cardboard boxes and a stash of bayonets under the workbench. I ended up hiring a dumpster and clearing it like a disaster zone, starting at the stairs in front and ruthlessly plowing to the coal-hole door at the back. That was a formative experience.