No more 13th floor. No more fifty six windows. No more sky view. No more shimmering lights. The L desk shoved against wall, its design now superfluous. Point my head left or right, it no longer matters. Spin around in the chair - the resultant view identical: wall.
Fifty six windows exchanged for this 9'6" x 8'4". If I were angry about my new circumstances I might ask after the other two inches - the floor plan calls for 9'6" x 8'6" - or I might call this hole a blemish. I might call it a lack of imagination - the architect unable to draw what he was unable to intuit. Every space must be a puzzle to solve or a mistake to admit. So in some drawer somewhere, in some filing cabinet, this building's blueprint says utility room or walk in closet or office and, if this is correct, such label should be affixed in the smallest faintest print because no man wants his errors shouted to the world.
But I am not angry about it. Not in the least. And now my space has changed. And what follows, what is produced or not, from this desk will be changed. And like it or not like it that is how it goes. Yesterday is spent. Nostalgia provides no shelter. Quite the contrary. The nostalgic fellow, when he finally looks up one day, finds himself buried entirely in foreign soil. He recognizes none of it. Not the cool moisture against his skin nor the earthen finality swaddling him. At that moment he may even feel cheated, although it is all product of his own shoveling. Go figure.
So one space has been exchanged for another. Grand panoramic becomes base narrow. Breathe exhale is now gasp and spit. At least this is how it feels at the moment. Opinions could shift as we settle in. Once this box becomes more familiar. As unlikely as that may be.