They drilled a hole in my skull on the 43rd floor of an empty skyscraper in Lower Manhattan. One of those towers where they told people to go and work from home and they never came back. Floor-to-ceiling windows, beige and white walls, spaces that felt impossibly big now that the cubicle dividers have vanished. One of those places where somebody pays to keep the lights on all night, every night, desperately trying to convince the world outside that this all still matters.When I googled the place, I got the usual stories of illicit high-rise raves, the usual lifestyle content from the usual young influencers-sorry, creators: photos of them dancing, wide-eyed and ecstatic, rich off selling their own lives, silhouetted against the dawn sun creeping up over the Brooklyn skyline. But when I got inside, it was just startups squatting in random corners, and a bored security guard who scanned my face and the temperature of my skin before silently pointing me toward the elevator.
展开▼
