When he got to his apartment, he paused at the entrance to the Schroedinger's box his place had become. He stared at the door's wooden surface, wondering if he was being watched through his own peephole. Then he twisted the key in the deadbolt and pushed the door open.
His mouth fell open when he saw the mutilated drapes, the gallon of milk splashed across the hardwood floor, the strewn contents of his bookshelf, the toppled stereo components.
He shut the door. He stood there dazed for a long time. Then he started walking through rooms, surveying the damage. A broken picture frame, spilt cereal boxes. A roll of unwound toilet paper. This trail he followed till it disappeared under the bathroom door. When he got there he reached slowly for the knob. He turned it and pushed the door open with his fingertips.
