I'm walking down an alley of glass. The path slopes downwards. The walls, stories tall, are stacked plate glass and just slightly more than shoulder-wide apart. They're not stacked neatly -- the individual panes protrude inches out from the walls. It's all edge and point in the alley and all the light is coming through those points and edges: green light, green-white light.
And the alley's floor shifts beneath my feet like the shingle on Dover Beach. It's the shards of the plate glass and broken bottles. I'm wearing Chuck Taylors. I'm afraid to move because I keep cutting my shoulders and my hands. And when I try to stand still, I can feel the glass digging its way through the soles of my Chucks.
And it makes that sound.