I feel as though I’m trapped in a glass house, but one whose walls consist of mirrors, an infinite reflection onto and out of me. I feel as though time, like my faulty heart, skips a beat on a regular basis, so the world as I know it merely jumps through reality. I exist above the surface, capable of knowing who and what is around me, but selfishly focusing on the inside of this house, this cube of self-discovery that has forced my generation into a self-obsessed disaster. We may casually collide, never fully realizing the missed connections, leaving us alone and wondering why we’re all so lonely. This glass house is one of many, a shrine I’ve created for myself, just as everyone does. The glass holds us in, but we are the catalyst of these reflections, forever blaming the structure for the windows that we covered with our ever-important misery.