Years of working in a building with an infinite number of floors that allow you to truly relish your own insignificance can eventually fuck with your head. Sometimes, for as rotely as you’ve trained your muscle and sense memory to get off the elevator after a certain number of sound cues, you’ll occasionally still exit onto the wrong floor.
This will prompt you to ask the somewhat philosophical question, “Is this my floor?” Laden with more than just literal meaning, getting off on a floor that isn’t the one your cubicle is on can really throw into question your entire cosmic balance. Where do you belong, really? Is it a sign of some sort that you’ve ended up on a different floor? Does another job or a potential soul mate await you here (it’s always no to the latter)? This is part of the reason sticking vehemently to your own “area” can save your life by preventing you from knowing what else you’re missing out on.