The elevator continued its impossibly slow ascent. Or at least I imagined it was ascent. There was no telling for sure: it was so slow that all sense of direction simply vanished. It could have een going down for all I knew, or maybe it wasn't moving at all. But let's just assume it was going up. Merly a guess. Maybe I'd gone up twelve stories, then down three. Maybe I'd circled the globe. How would I know?

Haruki Murakami: Hard Boiled Wonderland