There were a couple of times, when I was an elementary school-aged child, where they would bring out the box of thermometers in science class. The experiments would be going just fine until the horseplay got going and some mongoloid would send one smashing to the ground, the mercury gushing out onto and balling up on the ground, with the teacher going into hysterics as if an atom bomb had just been detonated. Of course the stuff's poisonous, but there was always something of a fantasy of filling a swimming pool with gallons and gallons of precious mercury. It would be great to just look in at the spooky, filmy surfaces that the sloshing liquid would make. And then, throwing all caution to the wind, it would be thrilling to just plunge right into it. It wouldn't be good for you. Your skin would likely take on a weird, burning sensation, but visual imagery of the act itself -- if it was able to be captured and truly felt -- would be worth it. It's the kind of thing that A Sunny Day In Glasgow music gives to you. It's to have that shimmering, silvery bed rippling before you and then falling into it, punctuating right through that thick material and just disappearing for a while.