The elevator

This elevator has twenty-three buttons that shine with an almost bioluminescent glow. Twenty-three buttons and twenty-three floors with people busying themselves in their apartments in this very moment. Like bees in a beehive; like ants in an anthill. The buttons are smooth, small, cold to the touch. Yes, the carpet is green and blue and beige with little diamonds lined up in a never-ending pattern of stars. Yes, the mirror is there, too big, making my head look tiny and deflated. Yes, the emergency stop button and the handrails are there (safety first). I can hear the elevator groaning as it crawls up the shaft, and if I close my eyes I can imagine the cogs and wheels and various other mechanisms stirring together, working perfectly, with stability, with an almost artificial beauty. But I can't shake this feeling, the feeling that something is wrong. Like something is missing.

Doors, perhaps? he says.