The Architect of Elsewhere ​Arthur didn’t wake up in a bedroom; he woke up in the opening chapter of a Russian novel. He would stare at the ceiling, waiting for the weight of an existential crisis to settle over him like a heavy wool blanket, because that is what protagonists did in the winter. He didn’t drink his coffee for the caffeine; he drank it for the way the steam curled against the windowpane, reminiscent of a noir detective contemplating a lead.​Arthur was a man who had successfully evicted himself from reality.​His apartment was less of a living space and more