I can't stop visiting the apartment in San Antonio where I spent the better part of my childhood. Last night, I trotted up the little pebbled steps up to the gilded entrance, made my way towards the elevator, through the marbled corridors with all the mirrors and plastic postboxes. I wanted to go to the 8th floor, our floor, but accidentally pressed "44" on panel - only 9 floors in the building, though. I waited patiently first, thinking I'd manage to come down to the 8th somehow, butn the elevator went past 44 all the way to 60, 86, 128. Panic. If I pull the STOP lever, would this bizarre ride end up smashed in some random layer of the stratosphere? How long should I wait before pressing 8 so as to not plummet from whatever impossible heights I'd reached? No desire to see what was at that final floor, whatever it would be. Shockingly, an image of the Indian Ocean came to me, and I couldn't discern if that was my ultimate destination or if it was the view before me and below me. But even in these scenarios, relief comes with a shade of annoyance once the alarm rings.