What am I supposed to do with this?
They say, ‘To create you need to begin with mud.’ I can’t even make that anymore. The droughts have taken all water: the streams and wells, my spit, and, finally, my urine.
Will the gods accept an offering of dry sticks and shards of rock tied with bits of dusty, frayed rope? No. There is only one way to call the gods and save this land. My blood will have to bind the dirt to the idol. It’s the only fluid I have left.
It must be done. We need the rain.