Fragment) Where's the Fantasy?

Who drank my...?

Where is the fantasy indeed! I seem to have let the gremlins get a little too happy with the inner workings of my blog. Though the machinations turn and matters of beer pour out in endless supply, I am disenchanted by not only a severe lack of fantasy here but a dearth of fragments.

... I took the memory and stopped it up in a golden vial. Then on a sullen day overcast and dire, I tossed it to the earth. Shards of muddled thoughts and misplaced dreams faded away in a twinkling mirth...

Glass. Significant objects in the world of fantasy are oft inclined to be made of this greatly fragile substance: glass slippers, a mirror, a pitcher etc. Be the reasons simply set viscerally at the core of the human condition or a subtle proclamation of the transience of human life, the image jars us. The clear hardness of it bespeaks of the infinite and the finite all at once, for "strike a glass, and it will not endure an instant; simply do not strike it, and it will endure for a thousand years." (Chesterton) 

'tis all