I work for Jones & Co. You are likely somewhere down below, I have grown used to this unnatural height. Once, here, as a younger man, I read articles, working on cases just long enough to cultivate indifference. My first firm party, I was made to wear an ivy laurel. We were mingling on the penthouse deck, when a gust unceremoniously removed it from my head.
Jones is a superstitious man, he has a dream-catcher above his office door. He designed a vaulted spiral staircase on our fifty-first floor. The one separates Jones from his company, the other, us from below. Five years of billing in six minute blocks, labyrinthine increments, Herculean costs. A kind of optic chiasma where the nerves cross and people get lost.