Glass Elevator Hotel Seed

0:00 to 0:04, a glass elevator in a grand hotel, one man inside holding a single white seed. A cable snaps overhead — the elevator falls, but the floors it falls past are not floors: through the glass, entire worlds. 0:04 to 0:10, the plunge: one second each — a floor of summer, a golden wheatfield with a running fox; a floor of autumn, a red forest shedding leaves that stick to the glass; a floor of winter, a blizzard with lantern-lit deer; a floor of spring, a storm of cherry petals — the seasons strobing faster, the camera locked inside the falling car with him, petals and snow and leaves layering on the glass. 0:10 to 0:15, the climax: the elevator crashes through the lobby floor into open sky above an endless flowering meadow and the doors ding open mid-air — he steps out and falls three feet into waist-high blossom, unharmed. He kneels, plants the white seed, and the elevator shaft behind him grows bark, branches, and becomes a colossal tree with glowing elevator buttons in its trunk. End on his thumb pressing a button in the bark. Atmosphere: brass-and-glass interior against four saturated season worlds. Tone: vertiginous, playful, serene landing. Negative: no cuts, camera never exits the car until he does, seasons in strict order.