Arthur stared at the glowing glass, watching the digital shadows pass. A thousand characters, jagged and crude, a sprawling address, naked and rude. It looked like a blueprint for global decay, or a cat on a keyboard had stumbled that way. "I must shorten URL lines," he confessed, as the weight of the data bore down on his chest.

He found a url shortener, silent and sleek, to fix the link’s ego, so bloated and weak. With a clinical click and a mechanical blink, the monster collapsed to a tiny short link. It was elegant, thin, like a razor-blade edge, a minimalist's dream on a digital ledge. But Arthur felt something was slipping away — the more he compressed, the less he could say.

He used a link shortener on his own name, to turn his identity into a game. "Why use ten letters when four will suffice? Complexity," Arthur said, "carries a price." He started to shorten link paths in his head, cutting out words that his girlfriend had said. She spoke of her feelings, of love and of doubt, he gave her a short URL to get out.

The comedy peaked when he tried to condense the meaning of life into singular tense. He sat in the quiet, a man made of bits, losing his mind in efficiency fits. "I've saved so much space!" he cried to the wall, but realized he had no one left he could call. For a short URL is a convenient gate, but it doesn\'t describe the full burden of fate.

He stood by the window, the city was vast, a long-form reality built not to last. He sighed at the clutter, the mess, and the ink, then reached for his phone to shorten URL sync. A tragic old soul in a world of fast clicks, fixing the gaps with his technical tricks. He shortened his sorrow, he shortened his breath, a minimalist’s dance to a premature death.