Chronicles from the Heart of The Metropolis: Crocodile District

Crocodiles inhabit the eighty-seventh floor, reveling in an unparalleled comfort that few could imagine. They enjoy a generous supply of filtered water, mud, and swamp grass, complemented by climate control and biweekly deliveries of fresh meat. The vast glass walls invite sunlight to pour in, allowing them to bask in its warmth as it traverses the sky from dawn to dusk - such luxurious repose would be impossible at ground level. Moreover, a stunning vista of the financial district unfolds before them, a breathtaking expanse in every direction. The gentle sounds of wetland life are artfully channeled through hidden vents, crafting a serene symphony of nature's whispers. In this elevated realm, these creatures dwell in tranquil eternity. Each day flows seamlessly into the next, months slip by without notice, and the years fade away, all while the relentless clamor of the city below continues to surge; a world we, the less fortunate, must navigate.

Do crocodiles, you may ponder, have any sense of their environment? More intriguingly, how is it that the workers inhabiting the rest of the building regard the word "crocodiles" next to that solitary elevator button as nothing more than a fleeting notion - perhaps a trendy label, an insurance agency, a promotional campaign, or a pioneering tech enterprise? It is likely just one of the myriad businesses in this metropolis with which they share no ties, no upcoming appointments, and to whom they feel no compulsion to lend their attention. Nothing stifles the imagination quite like a waiting room, and an elevator can be deemed the most constricted of all such spaces.

Once, the laborers on the level beneath observed a persistent leak from the ceiling, a nuisance that was remedied long ago. Meanwhile, those stationed above would scoff at the notion of writhing, ancient reptiles lurking just beneath their polished shoes. Yet, they are acutely aware of a peculiar truth: should one succumb to slumber at their workstation, they would find themselves sprinting through a shadowy woodland, shrieking in a frenzy of primal sounds, only to awaken with a jolt of sheer exhilaration and lucidity, feeling vibrantly alive. Since the advent of the office hammocks, the remarkable success of the eighty-eight floor has become the stuff of legend. They dub it inspiration, as is the custom of hairless apes. The crocodile, however, possesses a deeper understanding.

No, the only individuals privy to the existence of eighty-seven are a select few - building inspectors, city planners, and maintenance workers like myself. We tend to keep this knowledge close to our chests. It's not a closely guarded secret; rather, when I mention that crocodiles inhabit that space, people often regard me as delusional or stand there, mouth agape, anticipating a punchline about lawyers that never comes. When I attempt to convince them of this stark reality, their skepticism swiftly morphs into judgment: they declare it unnatural, inhumane, creepy, cruel, and altogether wrong, insisting that these creatures ought to be returned to their rightful habitat. I simply shrug and continue with my duties. Engaging in such debates exhausts me, and the irony has long since lost its charm.

In truth, few recall that this entire metropolis was erected upon a marsh. The crocodiles, ancient denizens of this very locale, have thrived here for eons, and I wager they will persist long after the cacophony of traffic has sunk back into the mire, leaving us, the bare-skinned bipeds, to our fates. Within the cool intellect of a crocodile, the city exists merely as a vast anteroom: the grandest of waiting areas, ascending through epochs that hold no significance for them, no scheduled engagements, and to which they no heed.