What a fragile thing, people of glass. What a way to live. What utter *horror* is broken glass. Stoic painted lines, Unmoving glossy eyes like lifeless marble. A vast emptiness where young hearts once beat. The ones who once scraped knees and climbed trees. Joy and thrill at seeing the challenge. Once, we fell and simply got back up. *Now*, do I hold my tongue in fear that one should crack? Must I handle with *such* care? I know it can't be helped. But am I *wrong* for wishing for how it was back then?