Michael kept his eyes closed, even though his fingertips were pressing against the glass of the windows. He knew that just beyond that pane of melted sand – that was how they made glass still, wasn't it? – there was a world he couldn't touch. He could press his fingers against the two-dimensional images he saw through this glass, but he could never feel texture. He could dream, and he could remember, but he could never pluck the outside world out of the frame, never taste it, never feel it.
There were reasons why Michael kept his eyes closed.