I descended to the depths of the stark, neon-shocked car-park in which my eyes were lead to pumping steam-pipes tuned to the dull thud of an mp3 richie hawtin mix that had accompanied me across the scudding ribbon-grey motorway to this place.
I ascended in halos, circled in the ambient elevator that paused to take on fresh stocks for the restaurant one floor up, the missing porter no more than a thin red line of blood traced down the corridor with sweated meat and fresh vegetables extracted in the dull dawn of the market just round the corner. He was not here, the porter. But his boxed traces reeked of meals to come and flashing lunch-time smiles beneath the long drop of a glass-ceilinged atrium, floored deep beneath my offices.
I hid in the shadows.
The elevator rose. Each floor passing in an aluminium cell, windowless, unknown and incensed, spitting sparks to the steam-pumps still beating the rhythm of a dark mix playing to no-one in a silent, gated car-park long below.
I arrived to find I had been here before.
There was a vacant chair and rain to greet me as I flattened myself against the glass and shot into the morning. Just another day as I pressed my heart to feel the pulse of the city streets below.
