Surging floods soar through an artificial rupture, crushing itself under collected weight and pushing the roiling liquid into the tiny muzzle as it boils and pops and plummets into unavoidable oblivion.
The unruly basin reflects only unsettled violence as constantly added liquid destroys the unsteady equilibrium.
Translucent steam curls upwards, rising from the crash site, searching desperately for places to cling and condense.
A soup of dead flowers and trees is disturbed in the deep, dark bottom, allowing the moving deluge an unexpected reflection of color in the morning sun.
A delicious mug of fresh tea is made.
Het doosje met alles 
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