White porcelain, deep and smooth like rocks weathered down by a river’s mighty palm running down its back for an eon of an eternity. Now dry, clear glass glaze covers its skin. Suffocating it in a sealed cage of dryness –a wasteland. It yearns for water as water funnels down the glaze basin only less than a centimeter from its skin. Dryness. The faucet spews out its contents. Looking above, the basin sees the individual droplets fall. Splash. Splash. A rush of coolness. The palpitating pressure of the drops falling on its face. Years go by then decades. It has been a hundred years since it felt the cool, dizzying sensation of slender water running down its back. A sudden crack appears in the glass. Water seeps through, pushing the crack out of its way. The faucet says, “Now, take it all. Take my water and run me dry. Run me dry till I can give no more.