![]() ![]() The hilltop farm with its windmill seems extremely remote, and you're by yourself in the wilderness, crags rising in the creamy distance, surrounded only by snow, by the polite little sail shapes of passing pines, and by trails of coins that guide your eye and glow when night falls. With the stop-start tutorial behind you, with the best-run marker a distant memory, you will hit a patch of ice, gain a sudden boost in speed, hop over a rock and think: Cor, I have come a really long way here. Maybe they could play Alto's Adventure, a sad pastel-and-shadows confection, a headlong dream of escape.Īlto's out now, and while a few early runs suggest it's just a touch too busy for its own good (tricks, grinds, collectables all fight for your attention as you hurtle down the hill chasing after your fleeing llama), and even as the cascading, insistent soundtrack hints that you're watching a really emotive advert for private health insurance, there are moments when you feel truly alone. So fitting, then, that the modern filers and droppers could play an endless runner as they race towards the lobby. ![]() Today we'd all be on our phones, of course, devices that often impose a powerful kind of isolation even as they connect us with the rest of the world. ![]() Elevators! To be squashed in amongst fellow humans, but to also be so solitary, travelling in the non-place of the falling car for a dozen floors, separated by the memory of work with its endless pages, by the thought of the subway to follow. ![]() I reckon that the loneliest lines in all of poetry probably belong to Hart Crane, who got to witness the birth of the modern office job and wrote:Įlevators. ![]()
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