The Elevator Man is Me.

What if we built a room large enough to put everything we need to live in it? Nobody would ever need to get out of their rooms. As our desires accumulate and our ambitions grow, rooms could become skyscrapers. And if you placed your baby things on the ground floor, and your coffin in the penthouse, by the time you worked your way up to the topmost floor, your life would be over, and you would be up in heaven.

And a child might begin on the 29th floor of his parent's skyscraper. He looks up awe at the scaffolds of his parent's plans for the future and marvel at the sky the view from the window affords him. But he would know no floors below. This floor becomes his ground floor, propped up by another's history, though when he looks, he sees only dark, pedestrian earth. He steps into his elevator that rises beyond the weak scaffolds, rooms clamour to be built at his feet. His vision traces his own cutting edge architecture; he looks down, and dismays at how scanty and dwarfed his parent's residence is. Memories of luxurious velvet furniture, chandeliers and generous penthouse views that were the shed below are shelved and kept close to the heart as blueprints of what should be. He passes the 27th floor, the 28th floor. But elevators do not rise or fall, the skyscrapers move up and down - thats why floors are called levels; they are brought to your level. And as the building slides downwards to bring the 29th level to meet the elevator's opening doors, a child enters wrapped nicely in his bright, mirrored elevator. A child, who will look up in admiration at the design he has etched in the sky, and look out his window and see earth where his life, his parent's life, his parent's parent's life stand. Once stood.