Since living in New Hampshire, this word has all but disappeared from my usage. When we traveled with children, we asked for adjoining rooms. When we lived in LA, the houses were close enough together to think of adjoining lots, more so if the one next to ours had not been built upon. We referenced it as the adjacent lot.
An apartment I rented in Marina Del Rey had just such a lot. After I left, someone built another apartment on it. Several windows, once functional, now looked at a wall. Much of the adjacent light snuffed out.
Not until New Hampshire did we experience the absence of encroaching neighbors. Even in Iowa, we saw gradual loss of adjacent emptiness.
Where we live now I am now so used to looking out our back windows at sky, water and trees that the road close to the front entrance is barely noticed. In fact, if we had a longer drive to the garage door, we would have to hire or own a plow.
Adjacent is unnecessary language in an infinite world. Neighbors are rarely engaged. I don’t miss them. Maybe I would if not married or lived with less lunch engagements. My world seems fuller empty, with nothing adjacent.
I spoke too soon. The plumber just arrived. His hammering of new insulation now an adjacent noise short lived.