There once was a man who was wrapped in sand. He was dry and brittle...so scratchy to the touch. He craved for water to nourish him. I really crave for the same I told him…but I am not made of sand merely clay and a little bone. He laughed at me as if I was wrong about my composition. But it is hard for me to be wrong about such…as I am really the only one who would know at this point. We continued to talk in varying degrees of intimacy about things that mattered and did not. I once found him with his mouth stuck on the faucet unable to breath. I laughed at him in the moment and later found it incredibly sad. I see him occasionally when it rains out in the street – next to naked - trying to soak it all up in his pores. I am usually behind some glass drinking a bottle of purified water. Who’s to say who is more nourished?