I have a little world that hovers above my windowsill. It’s encased in a glass teardrop that was flown over the ocean in my hands. It was painstakingly planted with tiny plants gingerly grasped in the prongs of long tweezers, and is watered with the tip of a hypodermic needle. It’s a tiny little world, but I like to have it tended as if I could go for a desert stroll along the path inside. The arid domain hangs in contrast to the green rainy world on the other side of the glass.