We’ve been living in this office building for generations. Desks have been our tables, filing cabinets our house walls, rooms our dominions. They say we have become midgets over the ages, mere shadows of our former glory. And so it must be, I know it when I look at the posters. Nobody is as perfect as people in the posters.
I am called the vagabond because I know every nook and cranny of the office. I have been to all the floors, east and west wing, as well as the canteen. I have spoken with the sentinels of the restricted area and bartered with the denizens of the warehouse. I have seen science and magic. I have known love and lost it. I know what it feels like to hold the hand of a friend as he passes away. And I have never seen the fabled exit.
There is, however, a place I find utmost mysterious. It is the Office in the Center. A door, the only one in the office building, which is locked. And the Order of the Center guard the key. They have tried it in the lock, but the door would not open. Some say it is bolted from the inside. Others say it will only open to a descendant of management. That does not matter, for the key may be a mere metaphor. What matters is what is inside.
Some say it is the Managing Director in a deep sleep that spans the ages. They say if he opens up and leaves, we will be able to leave as well.
The memory of the place makes me tremor. I quake in the presence of such great mystery, a secret that would change the world as we know it. But, being the man that I am, having seen so much, I cannot help but think: what if it is only men deluding themselves? What if there are no exceptions to the rules of the world?