Ground floor: airport lobby. 90–95% of humans glued to glowing rectangles, the rest are exceptions filing, in single file, humbly, slowly like a horizontal escalator.

Middle floors: planes. Headsets on, shades down, everyone staring at individual video skylines. Your neighbor? A pixelated stranger in a concrete canyon about to be stroked by block caving creating sinkholes 100 miles away unless Apache Stronghodl for Oak Flats succeeds. Pace of dopamine hits: 60–100% occupancy, uninterrupted. There is some hope for the occasion; no social media, political theatre children, the yungins…

Upper floors: restaurants and streets. Screens flicker like a blue light special or neon Manhattan windows. Human conversation? Rare penthouse view. Even clerks and gate agents contribute to the skyline of digital obsession while physically harassing you and everyone else for a ticket beyond the threshold, i.e. to board.

Penthouse: the city’s mural in place of bronze statues—numbers obfuscate. Each scroll, tap, and screen-time metric builds the new Manhattan, from single family residences to multi family continuous deformations of what was once a strong and powerful manifold sacred space. It’s impressive, glittering… and mostly empty inside but the soul is on fire.

Moral: skyscrapers of distraction can be architecturally perfect, but the mind of the city still waits for someone to glance out the window for a sunrise . sunset and/or horizon.