A Dream of Dirty Water

Why are we all here, in this place? And why is no one wearing any clothes? These are the questions that plague my dream.

The place is a simple building made of clay, lit only by the dusty pillars of afternoon sunlight slanting through an array of high set windows. The space inside is circular and completely bare except for a stream of water running through a recessed channel in the middle of the room. A simple arched doorway stands on either side of the rivulet, as if one were supposed to enter one door, leap the two foot span over the water, and keep right on going out the other door.

No one is doing that though. They’re all just standing around, staring at their own feet or considering the water impatiently. Every once a while someone makes a move towards the flow, but the chiding glances of other stop them.

The water, shallow and freely flowing, ripples and dances over an uneven surface. It begs to be sipped, but mud and sand stain its minimal depth. We all wait to drink. We all stay thirsty.

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