The Great American Novel

Your Sketchered feet patter nervously down the over-waxed hardwood floor connecting Nordstrom Rack to Pottery Barn to Orange Julius to Macy's, weaving your way through loud clumps of post-Christmas shoppers.
"We shouldn't come to the mall on weekends," you mutter. "It's like we're sardines, only sardines that are still alive when they get stuffed in their tin, so they can smell each other." Frank Sinatra's disembodied voice comes at you out of a speaker, melodically advising you that you'd better watch out, not cry, and not pout, which might sound less threatening coming from someone who's still alive.
"What else would we do?" asks Steve-o.
"We could write the great American novel or something," you suggest.
"What would it be about?"
"About life, about...people hanging out at the mall."
"We'll do that next weekend," says Steve-o. "Let's go get a cookie." You and Steve-o turn a corner and step onto an escalator, which descends forever into a thick black slough of despondent, soul-eating Capitalism.

If you would like to try running up the escalator, comment "1". If you would like to continue down, comment "2".