Under no particular pressure, the growing dome of a water droplet appears; it gathers around a crack in the pipe until fit to burst. Or slip away. Either way, it finds itself crawling away from its source, and then scrunches up tight into a little ball of infinite space and, hanging, falls; hangs, falls. Silence is unbearable and so is the freefall, which disturbs the light but is not enough to dent the steel of unperceivable vibrations.

“Here it is,” it cries as the droplet plummets to the bucket’s surface and plays in its own splash, which envelops all of nothing. The ripples of its own pleasure reach the edges of the bucket and stop there, drained of energy and desire, seeing no point in returning to its source. It would have been a great splash indeed if not for the gallon of water already in the bucket.

The surface of the water chuckles lightly at what it is convinced has been a waste of energy, and its amusement is short-lived. The stolid bucket finds little interest in what goes on inside itself and passionately commits itself to simply being. Another bead begins to form on the pipe and soundlessly orchestrates the intricacies of its impending fall.