Fourth Floor Office

Go to C Colon.

Fifth Floor Balcony

Go to Scene Of The Crime.

Stairway Trapdoor

Thereís a draft. The locks appear tight, though the lever-latches are corroded, eaten. The rungs are smooth, looking polished, scraped clean in places. Paint is peeling off the walls, pulled away in strips as though a vast suctioning hand were using the walls, not the ladder, to climb.

You feel drawn to the roof beyond this opening. You know how terribly exciting it would be to explore whatís up there. Donít you want to know what the view is like from the top of the CIT? Donít you want to know? Can you pass these locks? Are you allowed? Why does this spot look like this? Whatís up there?

And most importantly, why do you stop, step down, and walk away?

The Sun Lab

Streams of code Ė data generated by the drum-ticker tapping of your fingers, double-click copy and pastes, fast scroll mouse wheel investigations Ė filters down your screen, page down, scroll bar shuffle, hustle to the end of the text. You work frantically, forced by constraints, deadlines that bind you mercilessly to this node, this empty shell networked to other soulless slaves. You produce, you grind, you harness your mind to bend, break your fingers into their current movements. The pain begins to drag at you. Knowledge you are spewing onto this screen. You flood the world, with more information than it can process, you and these slave-collar linked drones that convulse in their own demented frenzy of duty-work. You overload the system with your thoughts, ideas, versions, and programs, hoping to outlast it, to tire out the feeding vacuum tubes.

In the end you arise, defeated, the shackles dropping away because you have wasted to the point of starvation, your bony hands slipping their binds. And as you turn to go, the material that you have produced in order to pay your duty-debts sits in front of you, the greatest possible pile of nothing, scraps of gibberish you will only have to work harder to correct tomorrow.