The fountain glugged, micturating into his Nalgene with the flow of a drunken bachelor yet performing better than the most efficient worker bee in the droning fluorescent office. He stood as still as a pothos on a breezeless morning, absentmindedly gazing at the boundary where the carpet and the tile conferenced. With the forethought of a zombie he mumbled, "Write something everyday." His bottle runneth over.