Tepid water trickles down my face. I’m standing in a hall full of half broken orbs swirling with the contents of a pond I used to see my future in. Sopping weeds reach out to me and wring themselves upon my brow. I’m seeing things I shouldn’t. A young girl in a mud spackled dress staring up at the sky from a fresh dug hole. Because it’s quiet down there and no one can see her. And no one can see me. And now I can’t see past myself like I could before. The pond I used to scry has been drunk up by the sun. Some illusion to my better self that could dig a hole to disappear in. The water still drips from the orbs in the hall and my own salted agony is changing the composition. I drink at the tepid water mixed with tears in hopes of becoming the reflection. In hopes of seeing past myself.