I trapped the spider in a glass tumbler, the likes of which severed one of its legs, creating a grossly disfigured monster. But I look through the glass and see: the true monster is me.
Fantastic insects drip down glossy broad planed leaves as the mist slithers in from all recognizable direction. The natives erupt silently, leading spears of molecule thin glass and gut the British explorers before they can ejaculate their favorite expletive.
Jimmy said to the bartender, “I’m not one of them guys that gives a crap whether the glass is half empty or half full. Just fill it with somethin’ good.”
When I stood in front of the television they yelled “you’re not made of glass!”
I’m … not made of stone either.
Glass is melted sand.
A pony is a unicorn that has lost its horn.
You can melt sand to make glass.
You can melt me to make confetti.