The man who cluttered his life.
He filled his home with stuff. He filled his mind with stuff.
Collections and catalogues worthy of a museum, adorned the walls of his house. His bathroom a shrine to newspapers of old, and his kitchen a mecca of plates and bowls but no food.
Soon the cracks began to form and the man would slip though those cracks. The mountain would to erode, and like a smashed piñata exploding its insides, the man became no more than a broken, empty shell.
To look at him was to look through him.
He was lost in his home with all of his stuff.