It looks cold, metallic, dangerous, but it is mesmerising. I am drawn to the floor, knowing it is made of glass, wanting to test it, try it out, measure its keep. I step onto the floor and feel the cracking underfoot. It gives way, a gentle bounce underneath whilst it creaks and splinters. I am exhilarated, and I anticipate with trepidation, that the glass will break. I hear other steps around me breaking the glass floor slowly but inexorably and here, underneath my shoe, more glass breaks. But the softness surprises me-the layers of glass cushion the step and give it that bounce. It feels alive. It is matter stretched to its limit as its molecules hold onto each other under the pressure, under the duress. It finds its strength in the mass, each sheet of glass resting on another, resisting the weight that forces it, inevitably, to break. But still, shattered, crushed, it holds its shape and the weight of my feet. It is defiant, laughing at my feeble weight, ridiculing my initial fright.