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The cup

The pewter cup is dimly visible, I take it between my hands. It is empty, empty. My thirst leaves me weak, my body useless. I check the cup every day.

Every several days or so, there is a little water in the cup. The water sustains me, keeps me alive. I have learned sometimes to live without water.

Then water deluges me, shocking my senses with its chill, leaving me breathless as I realize I never lived before, and I drown, and I drink.

Suddenly my dimly lit cell is empty again. There's no water. My shuddering senses can't bear it, but somehow I'm still alive. I'm not relieved from misery.

Every day there's a little water in my cup. Just a few drops, how cold, how sweet. They keep me alive. I'm barely alive now. I realize this is how much water I will ever get.

I realize that this water is not water, it's mercy, it's keeping me alive because I cannot keep myself alive.

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