I slept on the floor the first night.
The king bed was arriving later.
The loft was still mostly open space, boxes, and a few pieces from the old apartment. High ceilings. Big industrial windows. Exposed concrete. A real kitchen along one wall.
The old place had furniture. The new place had volume. I could see the whole apartment from almost anywhere inside it, which made every box look both temporary and very much in the way.
I loved it.
I sent six photos around with commentary. Here was the room before the move. Here was the kitchen. Here were the boxes coming in. Here was the new shelf holding the things I loved. Here was the longest view of the apartment.
And here was me in what I called my “newest / bestest hipster flannel,” a vintage Pendleton that looked completely at home in Williamsburg.
The apartment was not styled. The bed was on the floor. Boots sat alone in the middle of the room. Boxes and bags collected wherever I stopped carrying them.
The photos moved from empty room to early settlement. A table appeared. Books, bottles, and small objects filled the square shelf. It looked like me before it looked finished.
That made the photos better.
This was the beginning of my Williamsburg period, before Wolf of Williamsburg was a character or Wolfworks was a company. It was just where I lived, worked, hosted people, and kept finding ideas to chase.
The shelf became a dining-room wall. The boxes eventually disappeared. The first-night story stayed simple.
I had made it across the river.
New loft. King bed tomorrow. Floor tonight.