Today I broke a liter glass bottle and the shards flew everywhere, each a scintilla in the glower of the floor, each a voiceless aspiration about the lips, that final O of awe, the stunned stupor of a truly stupid mind, too slow to process the muddy slough, of air that broke under the weight of glass, a picturesque spiral that caves into a trough, as though it were a slow descent, one of longing—the bottle a ship and the floor a harbor—longing for a kiss, the Odyssey so slow it plays a dozen times between seconds, pangs, and the seeming atrophy of arms that just stand there and watch it happen—down, down, down—and crash—a slow release, of shape, like Earthshaker’s cry and the snap of cracking glass, the hiss of skidding shrapnel on tile floors, the mind flitting back and forth between options, never settling until it’s too late.