mike
The smell of death assaults his nose. The smell of the nursing home. As he pushed open the heavy glass doors, he wonders if his mother is still alive. Maybe she's dead today? Maybe she died a long time ago - before she ever got to this place. Regardless, he steps in, past the living corpses and heads down the hall to her room.
Somehow the punctured tire on his mountain bike reminded him of a broken heart. Something about how floppy, useless it was - how it's state wasn't it's own fault, a result of his actions. "Yeah, and the action of the person who broke the glass all over the road."