Fickle, a silent thought bristles. Drips distilled, lyrical tricks trickle toward a thin lipped brim, a liquid kissed rim, ripe and quivering from a whispering ripple. Little do the drops condensing on the curve (of a cold glass) have to say or do besides slip when things get too heavy. Take a sip, gulp a quart quick! Tip it before it spills like some vilified goblet - unquenchable thirst. Make room, top and bottom, mop the gloom, clear the clutter. You don't need a seer to see through refraction, frictionless reaction, a fraction of the fluid filled candle within.