mansion on the hill; rough

The living room was decorated with pictures in dark brown iron frames hanging on the walls. Above his couch, was the only picture that was not of Keith. Instead, it was of a glass mansion on the California coast somewhere. Half its foundation was grounded on a hill, the other half was supported by long narrow beams extending past beyond the edges of the picture. The photographer must have been somewhere on the hill, not quite ground level, but midway up, so that he still had to angle his camera upwards.
His apartment was small, a 500 square foot rectangle with delicate drywall barriers that protruded from the perimeter walls, dividing the apartment into one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living room. The apartment was on the bottom level of a three-story, cheaply made frame-and-stucco building consisting of 50 identical rooms, which was then part of a complex consisting of over 10 identical buildings. Next door, I can hear an irritated voice competing with a muffled T.V, yelling something indiscernible, to a despondent, vapid husband. I picture him, sprawled out on the couch, with a pillow in between his head and the armrest, absorbing the hues of a midday infomercial about free money.
In between the couch and the wall was just enough space for Keith to barely wedge in an end table, on top of which sat a photographic book covering an expedition to the peak of Mount Everest. I open the book to a picture of a man with prosthetic legs, triumphantly poised on the peak of Everest, stooping over everything that he had strenuously conquered. At the bottom of the page there is an excerpt of an interview with the man. "It wasn’t easy, but nothing worth obtaining is" the man said. "My next feat is to complete a triathlon"
"I see you hold high regard for physical fitness" said the interviewer.
"My body is my temple."
I make my way back to Keith’s bedroom to let the dog out of the kennel so I can take him for a walk. His room is blank, occupied by only a twin bed, and a desk littered with papers and books. I hover over the desk to grap the dog’s leash and glance at a book on constitutional law stacked on top of five other textbooks. I bend down to pet the dog and envision Keith with prosthetic legs walking up the stairs to a courtroom where he will represent a man that he has spent months arduously building a case for.
Next door I can hear the woman yelling to the complacent, idle husband on the couch. But this time her yells are more audible: "What about that mansion on the hill you promised me?"