carl was eating his cherry pie in tiny bites. he was hopeful that the bites would be packaged right by his stomach, but the cherries weren't sliced at the right angle, and he knew deep down in his heart that cherry pie doesn't not package well. 

he stopped in the middle of his dessert to walk to the window and sigh in its face, whereupon he drew a smiley face, because he was hopeful that the face would engender in him some sort of felicity towards smiling, but to his dismay the smiley face faded and he knew that this was a metaphor for how his face would fade, how the moon would wane ever further from this earth, how his mother would die this or next week, how the way the grass was growing in the yard that he would never keep it short, how he felt miserably unable to actually hope that anything would stay the way he wished to keep it. 

I'm not opposed to making carl a happy character, the problem I find is that carl is just a metaphor for myself, and it saddens me to think that everything which we have created is a metaphor to ourselves: the bed is a metaphor for our dead-heavy sleeping bodies, the couch is a metaphor for our lazy bodies, the lamp is a metaphor for our minds that will unplug from something when we die, our rugs are a metaphor for submissiveness.

I've noticed, though, that carl can't seem to accept that his window is a metaphor for distance. I've always felt that it is, but when I try to implant the metaphor upon carl he seems to walk away from the window and eat his cherry pie again, at which point I remind him that cherries don't package well, at which point he returns to the metaphor for distance. 

but, carl says, this window is not like distance, and I insist that it is, and we go on arguing like this for a few days. yet at any rate, I've found that when I stand at my window, I feel a great sense of distance. I feel that there isn't a thing in the world closer to distance than a window.