Shattered glass and sun

There is a certain violent beauty in smashed glass. I was on the bus the other day and saw that a couple glass shelters had been shattered.

They are, I think, made of 'shatterproof glass' (the irony is obvious, but I'll leave that aside) and the pile of glass shards was brilliant in the sun. The pieces lay in little hills of razor-sharp glass; to handle the glass carelessly was to cut oneself. It was glittery and -- I hesitate to say it -- just beautiful, in a destructive, venomous way.

...and now that I've gotten this far, I'm looking back at the beginning, and wondering what the point of this was. I think I was going to lead up to a "beauty isn't docile" morale.



-In other news, despite my lengthy rant (which could stand a few more additions, but I'll restrain myself) that I made here about Diana Gabaldon's remarks about fanfiction (original and snark [if you're strapped for time, don't click the fandom_wank link: I did warn you]) I've taken down my Dragonfly in Amber fanfic. I was originally going to leave it up for sheer spite (some of those arguments are so rotten I'm sure only maggots could survive on them) but you know, it's her novel. And while she doesn't have any control over what I write or think, I'll take it off the internet because she hates it. Whatever. I hope someday she'll wake up and realize and at least modify her opinion. *sigh*