His heart he wears not on his sleeve, but instead locks it safely away in a vault-like box. The box is heavy and lined in a deep red velvet to absorb the blood that inevitably seeps from the shattered pieces. He doesn’t want to see the stains. His life and his memories an amalgam of grey, broken stones and glittery diamonds and pearls. Tucked away deeply in the creases of the rich fabric, he often reaches for the jewels only to draw out cold, heavy rocks. The contents of the box–his shadows and light, his heart, his blood and tears–are not for public consumption. Carefully, he closes the lid and hides the key, sometimes even from himself. The box, like a treasure chest of open wounds and thick scars, blessed joy and messy pain, for his eyes only.