i wish i had taken a photo of the well. though i suppose that’s silly. you can’t drink water from a picture.

that water was so cold and so sweet. have you ever drank from a mountain spring well? in a valley so cold, the small waterfall in the ravine freezes? there was a scoop in the water, you’d use to sip from, or fill your cup. the heat was in the floors. and you sleep on nothing more than a blanket. but you are so cozy and don’t toss and turn a bit because it’s like lying sprawled upon a mother’s house-sized belly. you wake rested and wonder if you ever needed a bed at all.

we’d walk to the well and drink, hardly a word spoken. you watch the sun breach the horizon and know at that moment, one day you would try to tell people just how sweet and how cold that water was…


H. G. Wells goes up to the counter and orders a relatively harmless drink. The barista (whose name is, conveniently, Orson) finishes making the drink and reads the order aloud. Everyone in the café becomes paralyzed with fear and runs screaming from the building.