Count the cups to eight, fill them, down them, repeat every day until you die.

Choking on water does not contribute to the recommended number of cups a day. Choking on water will nearly kill you.

Showers consume bodies with waste and regeneration; repeat only when necessary.

Bodies are made up with 50 to 75 percent water. What else can we squeeze into the left overs? How much can we afford to lose?

Sharing water is complicated for Western bodies, even with animal bodies who crave the survival liquid.

Unfiltered water pollutes Eastern bodies, but do we turn an eye?

Water is the beast who grasps bodies, spirals, tumbles, abuses, bruises, suffocates bodies. Love bring us back to the beast every time.

Western bodies are the beast who is abusive with water, but we keep the Eastern bodies coming back.

Remember when you were eight and you slammed into the water that crashed around you hoping to become one with it, only to realize that water will always be stronger than you will ever be?

Remember when you grasped the sand below you or the concrete below you or the plastic below you trying to push back up to the top, trying to breathe?

Remember when you cried coming back up? Letting the natural salt water pour from your face as the seaweed ridden waves still try to take you in?

Most of the water on the Earth is undrinkable, so we slave to meet the quota. Slave to make our bodies sweat and bleed water only to replenish what we lost. Water is our abuser.

Frozen water expands nine percent from its liquid form, but frozen bodies don’t expand once the water is gone.

Frozen water regulates the Earth temperature. Liquid water regulates the Earth temperature.

Clouds rain frozen water. Clouds deliver liquid water. Frozen water can be soft or hard, while liquid water reminds us of the showers we overuse and abuse.

Remember sticking your feet in the puddle? Or seeing the tiny fish in the pond? Remember falling into the liquid murmur of the stream? Suffocating the flowers as they suck the life into themselves?

I remember everything about the survival we need. The showers I’ve used unnecessarily, the cups I’ve gone without drinking, the brown water of the Bay that feeds into the Atlantic, watching my canine lap it up after a hard run, the drops from the sky, the flakes from the sky, the worms in the soaking mud after a summer rain.

I remember the oceans trying to take back the water within me, pounding, beating, breaking me.

I remember fighting my way to the top of the captured concrete pool, not being able to hold my breath under the water much longer.

What would happen if the sea level rose and consumed us all? What if it stopped coming from the oceans and the clouds who slurp the oceans up?

Bodies are made up of 75 percent water. The 25 percent is the murkiness we try to keep dark to blind our bodies of the awful horror of preventing other bodies this percentage of life.