  I shall print out vouchers and itineraries for the morrow. When it is five, I will turn off the computer, check out, and leave. I will drive home and I will not arrive until after six. I may or may not swim. I may or may not drink tequila. I may or may not have a heavy dinner. I may or may not visit with my friend before she leaves tomorrow for a trip. I may or may not sleep. I do not know what I may or may not do; I only do. These are my thoughts.
I am water woman, born near a river, swam in a river, but now there is not water, only desert sand and sky and it is dry and hot and I wilt under the azure sky curved like an angel's wing blanketed over her blank face that reveals nothing for she has no eyes nor mouth nor nose only a fresco of emotions that run through her veins as the dark blood runs through mine. Water. How I long for it. To drink it. To pour it over my face and my body. To splash and delight in its essence, its crystals that change under the microscope of desire and heart beatingpoundinggrinding until it one day ends with single bleep, perhaps on a screen, perhaps not. And thatis how I will end with a single bleep on a screen, miniscule. Once here, now not here. Gone. 
