YET HAVING
REACHED SENSATION
Once I sat in a field of linen flowers, the fly-boy
deigned to fly. Away. 'This plastic landscape
has no place for me,' he spoke. I told him I
liked the sparkling water, in my mouth, as
it passed so cool; refreshing. I could feel
it, on my teeth. 'There are two sorts of
sparkling water,' I added, 'you know. The
kind where the gas is added, and then the
old European kind, where it comes from
the ground, already gassed, like Pellegrino.
That's the kind I like best.' We talked, and, by
then an old man, he regretted to tell me that
the fields and soils of old Europe were all
drenched in the blood of the millions of
dead from wars and famines. 'That's what
you're drinking, you know. Have you ever
really considered what it is, the 'minerals'
you think you taste?
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