Since I mentioned therapy in my previous post, I got a bunch of therapy-related suggested titles/topics for this post. Back off, Hal. This blog is mine and I'll do the writing.
And speaking of writing, this next bit is fiction:
I spent too many minutes staring out my window at the city outside. Levtrains and cars zipped past on their routes. Lights went off and on in the office and residential towers around my building. A slight flicker at the very top of the Nomoa building betrayed that this wasn’t an actual window, but a monitor showing me what the world outside looked like. We weren’t allowed real windows. A small camera on the outside of each unit was cheaper to maintain and much safer.
It was also positioned to avoid showing the actual street, about 20 stories down. I could imagine it, though. Construction noise. High power water hissing from the hoses used to dig holes through the concrete, voices calling back and forth, faint and unintelligible. Background noise for a city trying so hard to keep standing.
I wondered if my building would sink again. The last time they did this – upgrading water and sewer lines – the front lobby started to fall inward. Structural engineers had to be called in. We narrowly avoided condemnation.
The unit next to mine was being renovated. I could hear paneling being installed. I hoped the new tenants had sprung for the soundproofing. The previous ones hadn’t and the sound of their seven children echoed through my place nearly constantly. My unit wasn’t available for soundproofing. Technically it wasn’t supposed to be residential. It was a storage unit that had been retrofitted with a full bathroom and kitchen, and screens – actual cloth and wood – to create a sleeping area with some degree of privacy.
Outside, a car flew past so close I could almost see the occupants. Teenagers, probably newly licensed, showing off their skills by “dusting” buildings. The barriers at this level kept the car from crashing into the building, but stunt driving like this led to the elimination of windows at anything above the third floor because the barriers did nothing about the window-shattering soundwaves. Windows on the lowest levels had been eliminated to reduce theft and vandalism about five years earlier.
A giant fan in the ceiling groaned to life and started to turn slowly, stirring up a gentle breeze. It smelled faintly of creosote and cotton candy. A few taps of my keyboard added the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. This wasn’t synthetic, however. This was the real thing. Genuine coffee beans from Kenya, lightly roasted, not too finely ground, and brewed with filtered water – impurities removed and no enhancers added. I have no problem with enhancers; I just like my coffee to be coffee.
Flax milk and artificial sweetener don’t count as enhancers. They’re part of the process.
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