Hookah

I loved my pipes. Loved their smooth surface, each manifesting a sample of the different wood used. I placed them in a circle on my glass coffee table, stems pointing toward the center. I don't smoke, but I cherished my pipes. They were timeless.
One day I walked past a store and saw in the window something so beautiful it made my heart stop. Gasping, I entered and quickly paid for it. I could barely drive home, such was my excitement. I held it up in the living room so light could reflect off it. It was nothing less than a glass sculpture, twisting and complex, a marvelous magic lamp. It was my first hookah.
I placed it in the center of my coffee table, with my pipe stems pointing at it's magnificence.
I went upstairs to bed. Next morning, on my way to the kitchen, I passed the table. My beautiful hookah was smashed into a hundred pieces. I froze and glared long and hard at my pipes.
The world is full of mystery.
For me, this was no mystery.