as I write this, i am drinking a glass of water. why am i writing about it, you ask? well, i can't think of what else to write. if i asked someone what to write about they'd say 'anything that comes to mind' and the first thing that comes to my mouth is this glass of water. not intelligent, not master craftswoman, not beautifully complex poem, just this glass of water. my glass of water. the glass of water that came from somewhere before me, from the mountains, from the sky, from the rivers, to my mouth. and so, here i am, grateful, undeserving, but still writing and drinking that same sky we all sip upon each day.