"A teenage boy named Albert Schweitzer getting out of a bathtub and not quite stepping on the cake of soap lying beside the pulled plug. A Nazi Oberleutnant burning a piece of paper with the date and place of the D-Day invasion written on it. He saw a man who intended to poison the entire water supply of Denver die of a heart attack in a roadside rest stop on I-80 in Ioawa with a bag of McDonald's french fries on his lap. He saw a [t-word] wired up with explosives suddenly turn away from a crowded restaurant in a city that might have been [J-word]. The [t-word] had been transfixed by nothing more than the sky, and the thought that it arced above the just and unjust alike. He saw four men rescue a little boy from a monster whose entire head seemed to consist of a single eye.

[But whatever.]

...more important of any of these was the vastm accretive weight of small things, from planes which hadn't crashed to men and women who had come to the correct place at the perfect time and thus founded generations. He saw kisses exchanged in doorways and wallets returned and men who had come to a splitting of the way and chosen the right fork."

--
And the music boils onto into the day and the night, saturating the dreams and the frustrations and the beauty of the life and death and light and no words can capture it. It burns through the veins and blood like it never had before, far worse, far better than a drug.

Still, broken glass.