Aquarius

He resorts to water again. Four liters a day, meaning: no soda, no powdered juices, no alcohol.

He comes to the convenience store in the morning, sweating like the bottle he bought.

He carries it wherever he goes, and when empty, stops at the nearest drinking fountain he could find.

He always tastes that blandness that only refilled water on a used plastic bottle could make; every gulp a refreshment on a wrong oasis.

He heads to the comfort room after an hour. His body does not want to be the water’s vessel anymore.

He washes his hands and puts them below the dryer. He finds another drinking fountain to refill the bottle.

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