     There once was a girl who lived on top of a building. She knew of only one elevator button. It was through the glass that she saw in horror, the whole world was far beneath her.
      Ants marched in and out of shops. She could barely make out the faces of tired, homeless men, their empty Styrofoam cups splayed out past their legs. The women with their good intentions, held doors open for others, tipping a healthy, but non-boastful, 15% for coffee. Cheap. Their worth combined was still not enough.
      The girl pressed her fingertips to the glass, peering past her own eyes. From the elevator, the world was quiet. A mass of violent energy, silent in its crucifixion of isolation, whirled its body below. How could she ever be a part of it?
      She slammed the elevator button back up. Take me back. She drummed her nails against the rough jean of her pants leg. Go back! She pressed the button again and then again.
      The elevator, caught in its routine, stopped abruptly between the 16th and 17th floors. It was here where she would contemplate her view from the top.
Object relations 
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