Crystal br br A man wets his forefinger with his tongue and holds br up a perfect water glass, empty and glistening. br He is sitting at a table in a large br hall with other men in identical blue br br blazers with eagle medallions over their breast pockets. br Now the first man fingers the glass br rim, tentatively, as if it were jagged-edged. br And now he strokes it clockwise, slowly, stopping br br to wet his finger again and again, like an old br man paging through a book—until the glass br comes to life with a thin, high whine like nothing br he has ever heard, and the others look up in amazement, catching br br on, holding up their glasses, too, wetting and stroking br them clockwise like ice skaters in unison. br All the glasses are coming to life now; their throats are br slowly catching fire, glistening with a thinner, br br higher whine than any bird. It is like a pitch br pipe with wings. It is something like the music each br man heard when he stepped outside at night br for the first time alone as a boy. Then br br there was nothing in the sky but stars and music. br And the sky was like glass.