He’s come back from the watering hole.
By the look of things, the drink must have flowed free and abundant.
Every pore in his body exudes the pungent smell of the precious amber liquid.
Sweet nectar, gushing from the wellspring.
Yes, he drank, profusely and with much gusto.
He seemed to have had more than he could soak in.
He wakes up the next day, parched.
Thirsty, despite drowning himself in this precarious fountain.
He is thirstier than he had been, before arriving at the drinkery.
Without a second thought, he gravitates back to the mirage that beckons him.
Seductive, sublime promises of a tranquil state of quenched thirst.
“This time around, I will belt the drink down.
Then, oh yes! I will be thirsty no more.” He mutters to himself.
He staggers into the yawning, gaping, bottomless watering hole.
The deceitful fountain entices him.
It beckons him with its amber, golden, cold, cruel, empty liquid.