Quivering sheets of rain on the other side of the glass wall. Eighteen floors below, white-and-purple trains run along, the rain wetting the disgruntled people that hang on for dear life. There are pebble sized hail stones that hit the glass wall hard enough to get our attention but not enough to crack the glass.

The cars, that look tiny from where we are standing, appear to move at manic speeds, getting to places before the angry rain has its way. Ant-like people scramble for a place to stand.

It gets darker and our reflections in the glass become more defined. A row of faces that stare back in an eerie manner. Hovering heads and disconnected bodies swimming in a sea of discontentment.

That sinking feeling which comes with knowing that the place where you want to be is just out of reach.