And so they remained, well within reach, while Alfred, middle aged and filling with doubt, grumbled and wrung his hands.
All around him, elegant angles connected massive panes of glass. Rare hardwoods accented corners with intricate mazes of grain. Each detail had been accounted for, from the texture of the tile to the shapes of the fixtures, and the subtle blue of the wall behind him was a shade that existed nowhere else in the world.
He glanced from his notebook to the tools on the table. The page, yet blank, ached for the touch of the compass, for one of the finely tapered pencils to make the first mark of an imagined entryway. Aflred’s hand passed over the collection, hovering for a moment above a brass pantograph that sat heavy with memory. A gift from a mentor long dead, he’d received it the day they broke ground on his first building in Paris. A lifetime ago.
Cool sea air flowed freely through the floorplan, just as he’d intended, and expertly tuned acoustics kept the roaring of the waves below to a calming, white noise whisper. Each light bulb had an angle of its own, set to never glare against the brushed steel surfaces or sprawling windows framed in glossy black.
Of all the spaces he’d designed, the carefully placed cornices and recessed, octagonal social zones, Alfred saved the best ideas for himself. This place was his masterpiece. Every centimeter built to spec, a cliffside sanctuary assembled from from the depths of his imagination and mined from the bedrock of his bank account.
He had a flash of insight, and as his elbow unfolded toward a stick of graphite, Alfred felt it slip away like the waking remnants of a dream. He screamed in frustration and a tiny fracture appeared along the foundation.
Slamming a fist onto the slate, rattling some of his tools from their meticulous positions, Aflred stood and paced the room. The heels of his designer leather shoes clacked against the floorboards, each masterfully double dovetailed and sealed in a faintly auburn stain. As he stamped back to his chair, a few of the joints pulled apart with an almost inaudible pop.
Alfred flopped down in a huff and snatched his notebook from the table, flecks of stone dust fluttering up into the ocean scented air, a few hairline cracks appearing at the corners of slab.
His mind felt worse than blank. Every idea was ugly. The images wandering across his thoughts seemed useless and obtuse, the standards of form and study felt worthless. He sighed, and a split the length of his exhale carved itself across the floorboards. Alfred rolled his eyes at his own ineptitude, acknowledging the distance between himself and the elusive muse he’d built his career upon.
Cupping his face with hands that couldn’t find a single line to draw, undulating between anger and despondence, Alfred stamped his foot and buried a shallow heel into the crumbling wood beneath. He uttered a frustrated grunt, and six of the windows shattered on the spot.
Alfred dodged the bits of glass and flung himself to the floor, already splintered and losing its beauty. The bricks that held his fortress to the cliffside began to fracture, and the entire building lurched forward a few treacherous feet. As steel framed sections of the edifice contorted, all hope for genius faded from Alfred’s long troubled mind.
The columns at the entrance collapsed, spewing dust into the salty air wafting from below.