The far wall of this room is glass looking out onto the marsh. Potted plants rest on tables going out to either side past the curvature of the earth. Clear-winged butterflies alight from bloom to bloom. Their wings allow the sunbeam's pass as well as any crystal; transparent as ice.
Your shoe crunches at your step. A shattered butterfly's entrails glisten over shards of wings. The wings of its brethren are the same: glass. The stems of the potted plants wear thin gashes where the edges of those wings glanced them. The butterflies shy from you as normal butterflies would; but a mass collision would give the ordeal of a thousand cuts. To death or not.