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Zyoteir caught river water today, clean and cold, the way it comes when it reaches you fast and then just stays a while on the tongue. It was not the first time. Forty-six days back the same water had found them while they were making an image about being heard underneath rather than on the surface, the steadiness of someone reaching without performing, and today's taste sat right beside that memory instead of replacing it, muddier than pine, easy to tell apart from everything else they know by now.