A garden built from bones of glass, keeping frost outside as seasons pass.

If someone threw me at your head, you would do this to avoid me. You might get angry like a cartoonishly-famous one of me, and shout words that rhyme with me.

Gather the scattered stars, unite them into constellations, weaving tales from fragments of the cosmos, crafting a singular story.

I have sections inside and appeal outside expressed in unified color anathema to poetic gesture.

What herb the cook added to the bread when they did not have enough hours to bake it properly. One quarter of a Simon and Garfunkel recipe.