Glass. Polished, glinting with the light of the heavens. Glass with its reflective beauty; its capacity for inner understanding. Glass the innocent, glass the deceptive, glass the cruel barrier of a trapped mind. Glass the protector. And glass the progenitor of despair at the desired but unattainable. Closeness yet distance, a sequestered dream.
This is glass, lifeblood of the city, the glittering ornaments on the skeins of its titanic inhabitants. Glass is the voice of the monoliths, shouting sophistication and elegance across the chasms they themselves create. Covetous, snazzy, updated, the cloth that covers the honeycombs and the termite mounds of mankind.
Like an old Dowager's jewels glass is the face of the inner spirit to the outer world, critically scathing in its fashionable disdain.
Salute the armies of window washers, for they are stalwart.
Steel and concrete can only look on enviously at the attendants of glass.
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