“People in glass elevators shouldn’t carry snow shovels,” I said to Sheila, because we were in one with a lady who was. I faced the closed doors, rejected the view of the city without the slightest curiosity, because I already knew. What if this woman with the shovel suddenly went crazy, started flapping her wings like a chicken, like a fiend? I wonder what Sheila is thinking just now, I wonder if she has her eye on the snow shovel, how it can’t rest in this glass elevator, how it is dancing inside of itself and making me dance. No one’s paying the least attention to the tension between me and that shovel, that shovel and that window, that window and me.