In a tiny apartment made of broken glass, lived a man made of broken dreams. The apartment appeared strong, though cramped with furniture to distract from the ill fit pieces of glass assembled together. This was much like the man who stood as upright as possible to deter onlookers from peeping into his shattered heart.
When he first took up living there, he would mistakenly cut himself on little shards of glass that poked up and out from the floor and counters. Each day the man would cut himself on a shard that lay dangerously exposed. He would polish up the glass, wiping away the blood stains.
As he began to memorize the apartment, knowing the precise locations of the threatening sharp exposed edges of glass, the man oddly walked around in it purposefully cutting himself.
He lived alone; no one visited; he refused to keep a pet believing no one and nothing should be forced to endure the treachery.
When the man would feel the senselessness of his actions begin to get to him, when the loneliness would sink deeper below the surface, he would look out his window at the world that had broken him. Reminding himself that his horrible little apartment was the sweetest place he had ever known.