Shoes squeak; trolleys rattle. White lights, reflected, shine up from the linoleum floor. Movement, hustle, bustle; a phone rings and is promptly answered.
Papers rustle, voices raised, voices whisper. The elevator dings.
So many bright buildings, so many bustling people. So many signatures on pages. So much data. Computer on the fritz. Balled up paper thrown at a rubbish bin bounces off the wall and hits the floor.
Wall-to-ceiling windows that don’t seem to let in the light. Double glazed. From the outside you can only see the reflection of the sky. Invisible buildings that claim not to exist except by virtue of their doorways.
The building is connected to other buildings by the roads. Beneath the roads there are tubes and pipes. These carry refuse, dirty water, clean water. The pipes extend like tree roots between the buildings. They tangle with one another. Sometimes they burst and water seeps onto the streets.
The streets are lined with power cables. They decorate the streets like hanging lights. They are the ropes that hold the buildings to the ground so that they don’t float away like the clouds that their windows reflect. Buzz, click. The coffee machine is done. The elevator dings.
Michael Scott Hand 