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Drop the Bucket
Instructions unclear. You drop into the bucket, just one of a countless number of droplets. Into the bucket you splash, losing any sense of self in the vast sea of molecules. You are fungible, replaceable, unique in no way whatsoever.
You are the glacier. Slow, but implacable. You flow over the earth, scoring it. You flatten mountains, you gouge new valleys and lakes. And yet, to the human eye, you are a quiet and motionless expanse. Your energy is not fast, not flashy, but it is in you, and it is very, very old.
You are the waterfall. Ceaseless violent crashing over rock and branch, yet unchanging. You launch cold mist into the air to settle on the ferns and mosses around you. Birds flit around your banks, drinking and looking for food. Vast carp dwell at the bottom of your plunge pool, fed by the endless buffet provided by your upstream waters. Otters splash and play in your cataracts. You see it all, and all is as it should be.
You are the tide. Drawn in and out by powers far older and vaster than you. The sun calls to you, as does her consort, the moon. You heed that call, reaching out for them as they reach out for you. No matter how hard you reach, however, your fingertips never brush theirs. This too is yuri. Also, the crabs seem to like it.
Abruptly, you are tipped out of the bucket and splash back into reality, none the worse for wear.
Anyway, what now?