28 April 2002 - 4:34 p.m. The glass rests on the corner of the old book, near the edge of the table, waiting for a tiny earthquake or door-slamming rumble to launch it toward the floor, toward it's everpresent wish to fly. I won't have to pull spicules of glass from the childish soles of my feet because the dreams of vessels don't come true. They just hold. They just wait, trapped in their own rigidity, teased by the wanderlust of their contents, and denied the messy joy of hand-blown music. I push the glass, and wait for the crescendo. (0) Comments?