I took my time, carefully building and piecing together those four tiny letters. Finally aligning them in the perfect order, constructing that word. That word I then gave to you. And then you just ripped the letters back apart, leaving that word here, broken on the floor.
That word, now just letters of a word, just fragments of letters, lay scattered all around my house. I'm tripping over them every minute, everyday. Unable to sweep up the mess, because you also broke my broom.