They passed me on the elevator, no doubt on their way to the top, a murder of aspiring laywerettes whose heals all made the same flittering rap on the buffed lobby tile. Each had her hair in a respectable bun with faux chopsticks protruding above her air--two antennae intercepting unwelcome transmissions. Her suit was gray and her's light gray--while her's was grayish gray and the one to her right: dark gray with gray trim. They chattered so lightly--their words like gnats buzzing at the entrance to my ears yet lacking the confidence to invade. "Like"s abounded and "Totally"s weren't left out, yet most of their words might as well have been the whir of a boxfan or the hum of a florescent bulb. It wasn't until the elevator door made its triumphant pass that I noticed the silence in the lobby. How comfortable I was with it! Sartre said that "Hell is other people" and from the tone of this post you may be inclined to think he and I intellectual brethren.
And you would be wrong.