It seems I’ve been sitting here, alone, by this dark window for a long time. I remember people. Voices, conversations, interaction. I think there was someone here with me for a while, but I can’t quite remember. Looking around the deserted car, I suddenly feel anxious. Am I the only one left?

Just then, a door opens in the distance and before it closes, the unmistakable sound of subdued laughter and smooth jazz comes drifting towards me. Why was I not invited? I get up and make my way towards the party: I'll be damned if I miss this.

When I arrive, everyone’s already there: the doctor is ordering a tray of jello-o shots for his already intoxicated sidekick, the head cleric – stoic as ever – accepts a virgin mai tai from the butler, while the woman from the 36th floor is challenging the janitor to a tequila slammer race. Even the golden-haired elevator boy, thin to the point of emaciated, is here, huddled up next to the jukebox drinking diet coke straight from the can.

I make my way towards the bar, eager to down an iced daiquiri or two under the auspices of my old friend the barman, when someone blocks my way. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence – how delightful!” The housekeeper is here: big, smiling, unyielding. “We’ve opened our vintage champagne, dusty port and cloudy ale for you. I personally oversaw the slaughtering of a calf and a handful of ducks for some quick finger food. Even as we speak, they are polishing the fine dinnerware. Let it be known no expenses were spared.” She makes a little pirouette and says in confidence: “Once we're done here, there's Mongolian vodka and vat-grown oysters in the VIP room. Not to mention the quick pickled calf meat and duck tartar. After that... Well the night is young, isn't it. I shan't play all my cards just yet.” She giggles and claps her hands once, hard. From out of nowhere, a faceless servant appears with a tray of glasses. I grab one, but as I lift it to my mouth, something feels off. Is there a foul smell beneath that heady bouquet? Are the bubbles just a little too lively? I'm not sure. What I do know is

that I open my hand and let go of the glass that the sound of it breaking against the marble floor is surprisingly loud that everything falls silent around me

“I think that you are going to find that that was very ill-advised.” The housekeeper is too close, her breath sour and raw. Her voice low and distorted, she pronounces every word very carefully, as if to make sure I remember every syllable.

She takes a step back, watches me in disbelief, then clicks her tongue: “Try to play the part next time, would you? You silly little man.”

And with that she’s gone. I remember seeing her later, playing rock, paper, scissors with the janitor and the elevator boy, but I don’t think we ever spoke again.

We buy 2nd class tickets, bottled water and peppermint bonbons on credit in a tiny kiosk next to the railway turntable. The housekeeper, finally free of heavy wool and starched collars, makes a little pirouette on the uneven cobblestones of the platform.

A shadow falls on me – the conductor, big and smelly in a stained uniform. I do my best to avoid his eyes as he hunches down and holds up his ticket punch in front of my face. The sun catches the chromed steel and blinds me, momentarily. “This better be good.” His voice is low and distorted, angry but powerless. He punches the air in front of me twice and is gone before the housekeeper even notices.

We travel by night only. The window next to me is dark and empty: an occasional street light in the distance is the only evidence of anything but void outside. I'm relieved to discover how numbingly cold the glass is: I lean in closer, try to expose as much of myself as possible as it freezes me, preserves me, makes me more insignificant.

Once I’m numb the housekeeper reaches inside and pulls something out. “Here. I'll trade you.” And she smiles with teeth too white and even to be real. “But you must promise me something worthwhile in return.” I look at what’s in her hands, and realize I have nothing.

Sensing my defeat, she leans back, crosses her legs and looks out the window. “The journey is always long. I just thought maybe it’d be a bit shorter for you.” Her voice is distant: she’s here but already leaving. The next time I look in her direction, she’s gone.

Chamois and Squeegee in hand, we make our way across the land It’s surprisingly windy, 30 something floors up. The janitor and I are washing windows on a suspended platform that is slowly, slowly descending. We’re dressed in rugged work wear and orange hardhats. The janitor is singing a jolly work song. Oh tell me my frothy one, where doth one lay one’s head to rest? South-by-southwest right next to your chest?

After what seems like a very long time, we take a break. The janitor beckons me to sit down beside him, to listen to the crackle of the intercom and to share his frugal lunch. Between meat jelly sandwiches and pickled gherkins, he leans his forehead against mine and whispers comforting words. I enjoy this moment of unexpected camaraderie.

We finally come upon a window that doesn’t need cleaning, and carefully break it using sharpened ice picks and deformed lead mallets: the huge pane slowly turns milky and finally shatters in a cascade of tiny shards.

In front of us in a narrow corridor lined with broken glass stands a woman in black, her features buried in so many layers of starched cotton she essentially is faceless. For a second I think I'm back at the Victorian boarding school: the high ceilings and dark floors, poor acoustics and chipped tiles.

The janitor leaves us to go drive his machine down endless aisles, stacked with out-of-date TV-dinners, gluten-free candy and recyclable macaroni. The woman (“I'm the housekeeper, bless your heart”) shows me how to carefully cleanse the memory banks using industrial strength solvents: to gently release and pull out the units, connect the hose, choose the right formula and spray them down.

As the room fills up with vapors from the chemical reaction, our limbs start to dissolve and vanish: at some point I see the housekeeper stare at a bloody stump of rapidly dissolving bone and tissue. Is it a leg or an arm? Mine or hers? I can't be sure.

“Only the past matters up here. Those little snapshots you call memories: random and out of order portrayals, developed once and then left in a shoe box in the corner of the attic. We collect them: we like them.”

In her fancy evening dress and makeup the woman is a changed person. For a moment I consider saying something, then think better of it. She makes a dismissive gesture and takes a sip of chilled Chablis. I’m not sure when or how she got a drink. Will I be offered one? Probably not. I wipe the palms of my hands against my legs and try to relax.

She crosses her legs and leans back while absentmindedly playing with the pearl necklace. “You think you can improve, change, evolve, become. Why not just stop and look at yourself? Try to actually remember?” She giggles and says “you should see our slide nights, how we revel in the faux pas that is you and your equals: all the missed chances, the dropped balls, the endless, stupid fumbling.”

Suddenly angry, I lean forward to say something when i notice a tiny bead of sweat on her upper lip. Curious, I look closer and am suddenly aware that things aren't what they seem: her makeup is liberally but poorly applied. She has lipstick on her teeth and the rouge on her cheeks is uneven and garish. Up close that dress doesn't look so fancy anymore: it's too small for her and several beads are missing. I suddenly smell her: dried up sweat hastily covered with cheap perfume.

Uneasy with this scrutiny, she shrinks away from me and claps her hands. Without warning a bald, caucasian man, overweight but not excessively so, enters the room. She beckons him over and whispers something in his ear. He nods, comes over to me, grasps my arm lightly and says: “You are not able to go any further. Time you and I were on our way.” He smiles, warmly. “I'm the janitor, by the way.”

The 36th floor is not what I expected it to be. Instead of polished marble and aged oak, I am greeted by an office landscape – cubicles, stained carpeting, an empty water cooler and a headache-inducing fluorescent lighting. Muted music is playing in an endless loop in the background: something trivial about love and fast cars.

There is a woman in a baggy sweater behind a desk to the right of me: if she’s aware of my presence, she’s good at pretending. Occupied with what looks like a crossword, she chews on a fingernail while lightly rocking her chair.

I take a couple of steps in her direction but suddenly feel dizzy and look for something to hold on to. What is happening to me? The woman is watching me now, reluctantly. While I stagger over to her, she shamelessly leans back in her chair, puts her feet up and starts picking her nose.

“Hmmm, hm. Welcome, I guess. You are…” her voice trails off as she consults a handwritten note. “Number 375.” She gazes quizzically at me, puts her feet down and clears her throat. “Interesting. We had little hope for you. Little hope indeed.” She grimaces, rubs her hands against her thighs and says “You want something to drink? Coffee, perhaps? We’ve been keeping it warm for… well, for you, I guess. It’s been a while.” I am suddenly aware of the smell of sour, day-old, burnt coffee.

Not really waiting for an answer, she opens one of the desk drawers and produces a beaded, black evening dress, a make up-set and what looks like a pearl necklace. With a delighted sigh, she caresses the soft fabric, gets up and walks over to the nearest cubicle, out of my sight.

“You might notice that our cubicles are smaller than average: they made the partitions just a little too narrow, the desks a bit too low, the angles somewhat off. Difficult to get any work done, honestly. Back pain comes quickly, the lumbar discs give out, you see. No one stays for long.”

Her voice comes trailing over the smelly styrofoam wall of the cubicle. Why is she telling me this? Is this a test? Is she mistaking me for someone else?

There is something very comforting about small things. Never have I found this to be more true than here, where everything seems huge, heavy, hard and shiny.

There is a bronze plaque – tiny, of course – next to the opening in the wall and if I squint I can just make out two words: “Service” and “elevator”. Before crawling in, I touch the eroded surface of the plaque, briefly, savoring the cold metal under my fingers.

The service elevator is operated by a slender, golden-haired boy not half my size. He salutes me with that tiny, pale hand I saw from afar before turning his attention to the control panel. After pushing a series of buttons, he cranks a wooden handle clockwise, then counter-clockwise and again clockwise. While holding the handle, he pushes a couple of more buttons, then raps his knuckles against the display of a large, round brass instrument. Silence. He sighs, audibly, then tries a different combination of buttons, cranks the handle a few more times, raps his knuckles. This time, a faint ticking can be heard and we start moving upwards, slowly.

Suddenly, the handle turns violently in the boy's hand and the elevator stops with a screeching sound. Several buttons flash in an ominous way and somewhere in the distance, a bell chimes. The boy mutters to himself, muted oaths in a raspy, high pitched voice.

He repeats the sequence several times – buttons, crank, more buttons, brass instrument. I can see his tiny muscles struggle and for a moment consider helping him, but then remember the butler's warning.

After some time the boy manages to enter what seems to be a valid combination, and the elevator ascends unimpeded. Clearly pleased with this achievement, he takes a step back, wipes the sweat from his brow and turns to me. He smiles with tiny, white teeth too sharp and even to be real and produces a sketchbook and a permanent marker. Eagerly, the boy starts drawing what looks like a flowchart. I lean in to try to understand what’s going on and suddenly pick up a sour, wild stench. He looks up at me with eyes that are almost colorless and points to the diagram: lines and circles drawn in an intricate pattern without leading anywhere.

His voice is the sound of a thousand wasps in a burlap bag: “I know where you’re going.”

I peek into the dimly lit elevator, unwilling to enter. The controls seem easy enough: three rows of ivory buttons on a matte silver panel. No emergency stop, no alarm, not even a couple of friendly open/close door-options. Get stuck in this elevator and you’re in a world of hurt. I squint at the tiny buttons and make out the number 9. What was it again, 3 to take me..? 36 is even, so this elevator must be… I step away from it and the doors close, unexpectedly and with enough force to make me fall over backwards, momentarily deafened by the crash.

I stay low and adjust my limbs for easier travel close to a smooth surface. Say what you will about the doctor, that drunken old bastard – at least he didn’t sell me any second rate replacement parts. My ears still ringing, I head to the end of the hall, as far away from the elevators as possible.

This suits me, the subdued light and sound over where the floor meets the ceiling. I curl up, savoring the few specks of dirt and dust I encounter. I almost doze off, but then suddenly remember – I’m expected somewhere. Can I just ignore that and stay here? If I make myself small and inconspicuous, they might never ever notice me again.

Just as I think these thoughts, a section of the wall opens and a hand, tiny and pale, reaches out and beckons me.

There are statues on either side of the entrance when I arrive, two tall, black, penguin-like figures I don't remember ever seeing before. Their smooth, matte surface looks soft and makes me think of salty licorice. Is it possible to cast a statue from licorice? I approach one, cautiously, but the closer I get, the more it turns away from me.

Unexpectedly, the massive doors, made of crenelated egg shells and polished limestone, swing open to reveal the butler, clad in corduroy and crimson pine clogs. “Please don't fraternize with the staff ''. His voice is boomy and sullen, tinged with exasperation. “You are expected – follow me”.

I try to move lightly on these marble floors, so heavy and polished I feel like an intruder setting foot on them. The butler is behind me, large and unforgiving, not letting me stop or even slow down. After the first flight of stairs, we arrive at the elevator hall. “12 elevators to reach the 36th floor, 3 stopping at odd floors and 3 at even. 3 to take you 18 floors and 3 to take you 18 more. Can you do the math, boy?”

I can’t and the butler knows it. He graces me with one look under raised eyebrows, then leaves, dignity intact. For a while I can hear his steps receding into the distance, then everything goes quiet. I walk up to one of the elevators. Door of anodized aluminum with zircon inlays, call button no doubt made from the tusk of some endangered mammal.

This place makes me nervous. If I am expected, then by who? And why make it difficult for me to reach the person that is expecting me? I summon the elevator, and immediately regret it: my action wakes up heavy machinery somewhere above me, and the noise seems almost offensive in this serene place.

As the elevator announces its arrival with a loud DING, everything again goes silent. The doors open, slowly, slowly, like a maw on an unsuspecting prey.

I am whisked away to a modified Victorian boarding school to recuperate, but also to settle my debt. The cost of the vat-grown spare parts and repurposed ligaments are steep, but acceptable. The fact that I have to pay 70% market value for the Spanish paraglider is a bitter pill to swallow, though. There’s even a 2% surcharge for “excessive use of strychnine”. How dare they.

Everything is creaky here – I do my best not to break decorum, but with these century-old buildings that's virtually impossible. Wooden floorboards, wooden paneling, intricate and delicate furniture that seems to moan and complain if you so much as look at it. The floors are cold, the halls vast and empty. Not bad, not bad at all, were it not for all that creaking.

My time is carefully divided: a measure of eurythmy in the garden (under the supervision of the head cleric) is followed by five sessions in the dumbwaiter. That slight amount of time between floors is something I treasure: the smell of nineteenth century mahogany, the remaining varnish coming off in tiny, dark flakes. I rub a digit slowly against the blackened brass of a handle, for the sensory information if nothing else.

At night, we harvest fruit in the backyard, black, oddly shaped fruit that is roasted in the boiler room. The skin is tough, but enough heat makes it warp and split in tiny explosions of darkened pulp and barren seeds.

The cleric informs me he can't get warm and moves closer and closer to the fire. The closer he gets, the smaller he becomes until he comfortably can be added to the flames.

At some point not long after, I’m loaded onto a truck and taken to the nearest transit.

“This does not look good.” The doctor towers over me, frowning. How old is he again? It seems I should know, but the number that comes up in my head does not seem to correspond with what I see before me. Those trembling, liver-spotted hands and that emaciated body look ancient. “Not good at all.”

Brandishing a big, shiny steel instrument that looks disturbingly intrusive, he leans in closer and calls out for a nurse. Almost immediately, a middle aged man in washed-out purple scrubs enters the room, pushing a medication cart in front of him. He stops and unlocks the cart to reveal an impressive array of bottles, glasses, mixers, pills, pipes and assorted mushrooms.

The doctor glances at the cart and seems to weigh his options. With an almost imperceptible shrug, he puts the steel instrument away, gets up and walks over to the cart. The doctor and the man start pouring each other drinks and lighting cigarettes while conferring in hushed voices. The man points questioningly in my direction with his Gauloise, but the doctor shakes his head, instead urging the man to try a concoction of rubbing alcohol, eau-de-vie, aged rose water and a pinch of bergamot.

The man drinks, greedily, and the heady beverage seems to instantly push him over the edge. He staggers sideways, grasping for the cart, but misses and crashes into the wall, unable to break his fall. The doctor dismisses him with a snort and calmly drops his half-smoked cigarette in an almost empty bottle of chartreuse before finally acknowledging me again.

“Look, I'm no surgeon, but I do take on the occasional side gig – a spinal rejuvenation here, a by-pass job there. You know the routine. I could maybe install something new here. Freshly printed, never used.”

I consider his offer and check my balance, as stealthily as I can. The number that comes back is disappointing, to say the least. When I relate my financial situation, the doctor shrinks away from me, disappointed and morose.