Your apartment has no windows. Or doors. Or walls. You awaken one night with no money or clothes in a featureless white room.
There are so many things to do, and so many places to go, that you lie awake at night, haunted by the opportunities youâre missing.Â
You are lost. The only people who stop to help you are lost, as well.
âWhere are you from?â You ask. Everyone you meet came here from somewhere new; Paris, London, Chicago, Mexico City. You have never met a local. You wonder where they went.
Every night you hear a strange, steady thumping. You thought at first it was your upstairs neighbor playing music, but every night, the sound comes from a different place. One night, the sound comes from your door.
You have bed bugs. You have roaches. You have mice. You have centipedes. You have spiders. You have ants. You have moss. You have mold. You have vines breaking through the cracks in your ceiling. You have saplings growing through your floorboards. You have birds nesting in your ceiling. You lock your door every night, but you canât keep all intruders out.
One day, you collapse in the middle of a busy street. You are afraid that people will trample you, but everyone moves to avoid you. You relax. You are safe, here, where no one will notice you.
You discover a new restaurant. It is named in your honor. Magazines herald your discovery, and you are given a book deal and a speaking tour to educate people on the details of this new restaurant. Alone in your new penthouse, the day of your discovery plays over and over again in your mind. You lay paralysed as you try to remember the faces of everyone who was there when you entered. Other patrons, staff, the hostess-Â you must remember, so you can silence them before they denounce you.
âYou know you didnât âdiscoverâ us,â He whispers menacingly.
The train stops in the tunnel. You wait for it to start again, mildly annoyed. After half an hour, you look around the train car. The other passengers are getting restless. The train conductor says something garbled over the loudspeaker. Another half hour passes. People are growing frustrated. Someone tries opening the door between the cars and finds them locked. They pound furiously on the glass, but nothing happens. Another hour passes. The loudspeaker clicks on, but no sound comes except for the high-pitched whine of the open speaker. You suddenly become hyper-aware of how far below ground you are, and how small the subway car is. The light go out.