It has been a week, and I am finally home. Home, sweet home.
Before I go into all the events that have transpired, preventing me from writing a single world, let me describe my little piece of heaven on this cursed world.
This is where I work, eat and sleep, in a cramped haven that measures scarcely 30 square meters – a cocoon of shelter amidst the storm of the Megacity that Neo-Philly is.
A Compact Entryway:
The journey into my luxurious abode begins with a narrow hallway, a mere sliver of space that holds a modest wardrobe. It's a functional introduction, a glimpse of what's to come – a testament to the need for simplicity when every inch counts. The plastcrete walls frame this passage, serving as silent witnesses to the ebb and flow of my existence.
A Dimly Lit Oasis:
As you step beyond the confines of the hallway, the living space stretches before you, multifaceted yet constricted. Dimly lit by a warm glow, I've mastered the art of illumination, orchestrating the interplay between light and shadow to create an ambiance that defies the cold, clinical exterior of the world outside. The plastglass windows filter the harshness of the polluted sky, casting a softened, almost dreamlike atmosphere that soothes the senses.
Cleanliness is next to godliness:
You guessed it right - the bathroom. It is exaggerated to call it that, as it only holds a toilet, a sink and a shower. A cramped space. It is clean though, and since I've invested a couple of XRP-Credits to properly close all the openings and buy a steel-net filters for the ventilation, there are no roaches and bugs crawling around.
A Fusion of Functions:
Within this limited canvas, every inch is a realm of duality – a space that marries the practical with the personal. The living room doubles as my workspace, a theater where ideas take shape and revelations find their voice. The kitchen is integrated, and its size is a testament to my modest culinary ambitions, where sustenance is prepared with an almost ritualistic care. There is no food on the counter, as there is not much to eat at the best of times. That would also explain my somewhat gaunt expression.
A Symphony of Secondhand and Synthetics:
The furniture within the living room is a testimony to the world's resource limitations. Every piece, carefully selected, secondhand yet functional, tells a story of resilience.
My worktable bears the scratches of time, each mark a reminder of the battles fought and won in the pursuit of truth. It is an old, ugly thing, assembled from sheets of metal and plastic on a steel frame. It must be some leftover piece from the 20th century, by the looks of it. My rigged laptop is always on it, connected wirelessly to the Net, AI bots churning the data according to the parameters they were given. The lamp beside it doesn't better the first impression, but at least it gives off a warm light that softens the harsh impression of the desk and the laptop on it.
The two chairs, worn yet steadfast, have cradled countless hours of toil and contemplation. And amidst it all, a testament to the age – synthetics, a symbol of a society that's traded authenticity for efficiency.
I have a single armchair, its real state hidden beneath a green blanket. The number of times I fell asleep there...
A small sofa is my sleeping space. It is not especially cozy, but it does the job. After sleeping all over the city, in the patrol cars, on the floor and all other possible places, I will not complain. It is also covered with a green blanket, a testament of 2-for-1 deal I got.
The plastcrete walls do more than confine; they give shape to my purpose. One side is adorned with a sprawling crime-board, a tangled web of evidence, connections, and dependencies. Bits of data are linked by threads, forming a visual map of the truth I seek. It's a testament to the complexity of my task and a constant reminder of what I aim to achieve.
The other side hold several shelves where I store the documentation, old files related to my work and a myriad of digital data storage solutions.
The Solace of a Balcony:
Perhaps the most poignant corner of my refuge is the balcony, a meager extension into the world beyond the plastglass confines. A small patch of space can only serve as a storage in a city suffocating under the weight of its own decay. Though its use is limited, its significance transcends its physical dimensions. It's a reminder how this "progress" has limited our very existence. A big slab of plastglass is these days covered by pictures and posters that I gather on my travels. All of them are better entertainment than watching the acidic rain splatter down, or the smog roll in.
Cozying the Abyss:
Despite the meager budget and the starkness of the world, this space has evolved into a haven. It's a shelter from the storm, a realm where I am both architect and occupant, shaping each facet to reflect my defiance against the unyielding forces that seek to break me. The warm light, the hushed ambiance – they're my rebellion against the bleakness that looms just beyond the plastglass windows.
In closing, my dwelling is more than just walls and furniture – it's a microcosm of existence in a world consumed by shadows. Within these 30 square meters, life blooms amidst the constraints, and hope is distilled from adversity. It's a refuge where the whispers of the city's chaos are muffled, and where the power of human will manifests as the truest form of artistry. In the ever-present twilight, my abode stands as a tribute to survival, a sanctuary of the spirit amidst the dystopian desolation.
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