The floormen wear suits and expressions of feigned usefulness. The place pops with quick detonations of elation and anguish, money won and lost. The ceiling spits light and pretends not to know about the cameras that it not-so-secretly dangles. Security men crawl like cockroaches on catwalks hidden behind one-way mirrors. Chrome hemispheres eye the room tirelessly, showing it back to itself again, ever-so-briefly after it first happens: a light jump away.
John O’Brien, Leaving Las Vegas
