Had been meaning to write something based around this for quite some time. Not 100% sure how I feel about this; I suppose I'll take another look at it sometime in the future and decide.
He sits in the water and feels it bubbling up from the depths of the earth; hot and salty, the tears of some unknown, ancient god. It washes over him, erasing and rewriting everything it comes into contact with, leaving him blank and whole once more. In his hands he holds two jagged chunks of ice, the pleasant pain his only tether to the world around him. For a moment he watches them crying their slow tears of death that pool in the hidden wells of his hands, which he closes and plunges into the water. It is as if the heat can feel its antithesis, can feel the ice within his hands as it probes, searching for a way to become one with the cold, to slake its neverending thirst; and the cold on the inside of his hands is opening itself, stretching forward for that happy oblivion as a woman welcomes her lover. He grants her wish, a little at a time, feeling the heat seep inside and the chill dissipate, until all that is left is water and the memory of numb hands which gradually return to life.
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