Mr. Sullivan Regards His Own City
Few things thrilled Louis Sullivan more than strolling his own city and regarding the buildings that he had created. These massive, muscular fingers reaching towards the sky had been created by his one virile yet elegant digits.
Sometimes it seemed Sullivan got as much pleasure from observing these enormous poems of granite, glass and steel reaching for the heavens, noticing how the light of late afternoon bathed them in warm hues as they looked down on the unimaginative flatness of the prairie.
What had not been among Sullivan's strengths was ventilation. And his top floor office could be deadly overheated in the late summer afternoons.
To find relief he would often sit on top of the building, sipping a chocolate milk and regarding the city below. It was a nurturing and relaxing ritual that, none-the-less, irked the ire of his partner Adler who seeing Sullivan perched on the roof called his Viennese headshrinker
"Sullivan, Sullivan! Don't do it. Don't jump," pleaded Dr. Baumgartner.
"I've no intention of jumping."
"What's bothering you, Sullivan. You can tell me."
"You, Baumgartner. Nothing is bothering me but you.