My well sits on a tall hill.
It is a stupid place for a well, but the water is pure.
It quenches me like nothing else.
Pulling water up the well is strenuous and burns my arms.
My will is Ethereal. Fleeting. Transient.
To live, to really Live, I must drink. I must drink often.
To Live I must first suffer.
So I climb the hill.
I pull up the water.
© 2015, Joseph K Little. All rights reserved.