I was on a piece of glass not quite as long as I am tall, lying in a slightly curled position in order to remain completely on the glass. I don’t know what was beyond the glass, but it felt cold and hungry. The glass itself was warm, as if it had some internal heat source, or were alive. It was so smooth as to be almost soft, and I couldn’t help but caress it, running my fingers slowly back and forth, risking cuts to stroke the polished edge. The glass did not love me, but it held me nonetheless.