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Surely, one would think, there are better things to do with one's time than sit idly in a cubical space, bound by low, beige, flimsy walls, tapping at little rectangular buttons, accompanied by a small village of other cube-bound typists. It's all orthogonal, really—square carpet-tiles, rectangular print-outs, right-angled windows. My life is largely a bunch of squares surrounded by other squares.