Yesterday, as I left the office and imagined myself being accepted for the job, I could not help but to feel a little uneasiness. I imagined myself travelling to the 36th floor everyday, then locating my seat and setting immediately to work. I imagined the people I’d meet and conversations I’d be having with them; they would probably be about work or some spurious gossip about the new-age. Then, I’d meet my boss and show him a report. He’d give me pat and send me off to the next assignment. And as the sky pales to a weak flush of orange, I’d gather my things and leave. I’d take the lift, now crowded with replicas of myself, down to the first floor. The next day will be exactly the same. And next, and the next, and the next.. Until I am too old to care. There will be no talk of philosophy, no ruminations on the nature of our lives, on the things that function behind the mask, no pursuit of the transcendent, no discussion about what it means to be, no fiery explication of one’s passion, and no ends other than the bland slip of shaved paper. If I had a dream, it would be buried.