Glass House

She'd built it metaphorically, to point out the fragility of our realities. If it earned her six figures, well she had to make a living.

Now she was confined inside a true house of glass, forever damned to clean windows, and floors and walls. Her fingers tasted of windex.

The worst part was the audience of gawkers and art critics parading past, taunting her with their stones and opaque clothing. They recycled themselves incessantly, and their presence was a constant reminder of her former hubris.

You see, the devil believes in metaphors too, and in prisons of our own making.