The blue glass bird does not fly below blue skies, above green grass, using wings feathered by the power of DNA. This bird sits indoors, blown by something other than wind, with no breath of life to move it across valleys. It gathers dust. Its life is contrived by imagination that has forgotten what it means to be alive—flesh, blood, bone. Glass has no soul. It imitates in stillness, embodying nothing more than an idea.

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