I still have no idea why I would be here, in this place. It’s a great place to haunt, to be sure. Wide open floor plan, very high ceiling with exposed wooden beams that seem as thick as an average tree, around a dozen ancient windows lining the southwestern-facing wall. The windows are tall and fairly thin, coffin shaped. During the day, the sunlight filters through the old glass and marks time along the floor in angular wavy pools, getting longer and progressively taking on a more amber hue as the sun arcs across the city.
He has placed several spindly floor lamps around the loft at strategic locations; one on either side of the kitchen area, one near his studio area, one by his couch. They are all of the same design - sort of a wrought iron look to them, with ornate iron vines sprouting a small dark leaf every so often as they climb the length of the lamps.
He barely uses the lights at all – by day there is plenty of light from the windows. At night, there is usually enough ambient light from the street and other buildings for him to get around by. All of the corners are dark and cobwebby, and the place is just draped in layers of shadow. The lamps just stand there like deserted sentries, unable to fulfill their one duty. Every surface of this place is covered in a thin layer of dust that glows phosphorescently in the evening hours.
The floor is old and wooden, worn down in some areas, so the grain sticks up in ripples. The wood floor runs throughout the loft except for the kitchen, which is covered in a beautiful gray and black marble. The appliances in the kitchen are all stainless steel, and seem to be of a design more suited for a commercial rather than residential purpose. This reminded me, a little, of where I used to work when I first, and that reminder brought with it the first twinge of nostalgia I'd experienced for my old life. He does not spend much time in the kitchen - in the time I've been here, he exists mainly in the bedroom.
The bedroom is off of the kitchen, in a corner, and is not a room as such since the floor plan is so open, but it is more or less easy to spot the fuzzy borders between areas. It is fairly small and manages to somehow appear claustrophobic, due in part to the imposing bookcases that line the walls. There is a narrow galleyway between the books and his bed - he can just reach over while still lying down to pluck a book off the shelf.
A small bathroom is tucked into the bedroom area, not much bigger than a closet. It is old and echoey and lined in white ceramic tile which is dingy but not dirty-looking, more weathered or antiqued, I would say. He spends what most would say is an inordinate amount of time in here. Out of concern (or more, to be honest with myself, untoward curiosity) I looked in on him one day only to discover this is where he goes to masturbate. I was not repulsed by this discovery, at least not like I'm sure I would have been had I been alive; I felt more of a kind of sympathy and understanding. I was able from my perspective to see more than just a vulgarity, but also the motivations within this human, at least a little. And this was, in part, a mechanism; a ritual to beat off, so to speak, the demons of lonliness and despair that were so obviously plauging him. At least, it was becoming obvious to me the more I observed him.
There is a small nightstand with a lamp next to his bed which borders the edge of the sitting room. He has scattered a bunch of smooth gray pebbles and rocks over the surface of the nightstand in a more or less random manner, as if he were broadcasting flour over a marble countertop, preparing to knead dough. I recognized the rocks immediately - they were from the North Shore, near where I killed myself. (died?). There was a strange energy to them.
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