It was as if someone had taken the biggest glass bowl in the universe and dropped it on top of a planet. 

This specific planet’s surface was covered with thick blue marshes, meaning that when the glass bowl had shattered, the pieces had stuck fast in the ground and created a perilous, jagged landscape. 

(Of course, that wasn’t really how the planet was made, but as scientists have been at a loss as to how the glass formed, many have, only partially in jest, adopted what is called the “bowl theory.”)

Landing a ship on the planet is impossible, as there are few flat surfaces big enough; and even if you did land, you’d soon sink into the sticky blue marshes before you could say “Oh no.” 

One explorer took up the task of trying to discover the true nature of the glass shards. He found two things: one, that the edges of the shards were, indeed, sharp, and two, that it was impossible to step anywhere on the planet without treading on said shards. You can imagine how well that went. 

So maybe no one will ever find out the exact nature of the glass planet. But one thing I can tell you is that there’s wind here, and when it blows just right across certain pieces of glass, it creates an eerie melody that seems fitting for the uninhabited planet. 

Uninhabited, that is, apart from me.