And I once saw an experimental, three-actor production of "The Tempest" at Shakespeare's Globe in London, starring Mark Rylance as Prospero, when it was so hot that genuine mirages rose and glimmered from the stage — the kind that you see on open stretches of highway in the American Southwest.
Or get a look at hundreds of hanging strands of mucus glimmering from the secretions of glowworm larvae in a New Zealand cave?
They glimmered from wide-shoulder tunics that were worked in dense embroidery, perhaps inset, Russian-style, with a cross-stitch panel of a rose.
At night, the hills fade except for the bright specks of light glimmering from the windows of the houses and apartment buildings that climb their flanks.
Opera glimmers from upstate New York.
Glimmers from the rest of the world.
GOOD news glimmers from Africa's poorest country.
(This could well be an example of what is called "the fallacy of imitative form," a phrase that glimmers from hazy memories of college seminars).
"Middletown" glimmers from start to finish with tart, funny, gorgeous little comments on big things: the need for love and forgiveness, the search for meaning in life, the long, lonely ache of disappointment.
And the sound glimmers from within the folkier arrangements on "Hendra," which Watt made with a creative team that included producer Ewan Pearson, who's also worked with Thorn on her solo material, and guitarist Bernard Butler, a Britpop contemporary of Albarn's from the band Suede.
Or does it just shrink and hide, then glimmer from its hiding place, like glitter stuck in the slats of your floor?
