Gazing out at the tapestry of light down below, the Hancock Building's 95th-floor window pressed cold upon my forehead, I notice three things:
1) The white lights flanking parallel streets create a sort of titanic runway, leading to the edge of town, speckled with SUVs that, at this height, are fuel-inefficient ants.
2) The nature of the lighting in this extravagantly expensive bar makes a ghostly image above the real city, phantom lights trying in vain to be half as spectacular as our city's addiction to electricity.
3) My fifteen-dollar cocktail is empty and some of it is on my tuxedo.
Oh, how I love Chicago.