Since I was sleeping less and poorly, every day I was always extremely tired. I would wander wary, but weak. I would go on with my routine. I would go to work in my office that was hanging between earth and sky, in the building that was stretching upwards to grasp the clouds.

  Icarus.

  That was its nickname in the city. A 11-story building, which was sticking out in the Towers Complex. The complex towered gloomy above the little and colorful houses of the neighborhood. It was out of place. Almost alien.

  A crane in a sunflower field.

  A black pit as revolting as magnetic.

  I would take the elevator. I would press the number 11. Each movement: an automatism. I would arrive at the office, greet my colleagues, sit, turn on my computer. I would carry on with my procedures. At 9 o’clock sharp I would stare at the void, while my boss would deride me and remind me how useless and replaceable I was.

  Every single day.

  “You are nothing”.

  Then why are you still keeping me here? Why haven’t you fired me yet?

  I was always on time, I would always meet the deadlines, I would do my best. I would channel all the energy I didn’t have in a job that wasn’t satisfying me. In a job that was ripping off my will to live.

  And it was not enough. Ever.

  The days would fall on the ground like rotten petals. All of them identical, all of them grey. Petals badly trodden on by my boss’s polished moccasins.

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  “You can leave if you don’t like what I have to say.”

  “And if you do leave, you won’t find anything better than this. I will make sure of it. You will end up scrubbing toilets.”

  Each day he would manage to destroy me more and more, he was annihilating me. He would manage to convince me of my incompetence. He would manage to convince me that it was pointless to look for another path.

  Why don’t I leave?

  Yes and where the fuck would I go?

  I studied for this, should I go back to studying?

  With what money? With what energy? With what certainties?

  The questions would repeat identical in an endless loop. And in the end, while cursing myself, I stayed. If, at the beginning, there were more opportunities to deviate from that path, the further I went, the fewer opportunities there would be. I was staring at my life dissolving within my hands. My ambitious plans. Everything had already been written and I couldn’t look back.

  And so I would go on. Every day. More and more tired, less and less myself. I was losing my hair, and I started to notice some whitish strands. And I would go on.

  I would take the elevator. I would press the number 11. Each movement: an automatism. I would arrive at the office, greet my colleagues, sit, turn on my computer. When my boss would come, I would erase myself. I would listen to my colleagues laughing and groveling before him. I would see them writhing like worms. They probably were just like me. They too had run aground there, convinced that this place would take them far. Convinced that Icarus would be an encouraging launching pad. Too late, it had revealed itself to be what it truly was: a leech.

  When I got off work, I would drag myself, hooded, through the towers surrounding Icarus. The Towers Complex. A glass maze full of dark and dirty corners, where spiderwebs and dust were claiming more and more space. Us employees, we knew almost all of its secrets and we were able to orient ourselves. But it was always hard for strangers to understand which way to go. Which stair? Which tower?

  I would go down a flight of stairs, I would turn left, I would go down another flight of stairs, I would turn right and then left again without even thinking, without even watching where I was putting my feet. I was too busy looking around me, always wary.

  Were my fears well-founded?

  Was my anxiety?