49. You take one particular object, and you make of it your world. You invest your time, your heart and your soul into that one thing, and you hope that it will bring you fulfillment. This is your seed, and this is all you have left. You examine it from every angle, you see how it shines in every trick of the light. You reach for it. You bring it close to your chest. See how it cools you. The vessel is smooth. Its long elegant curves rise up, tactile and transcendent. It is always the hottest, most arid, miserable of days. Without it, you are nothing, you are doomed to die in this stifling heat. But listen now, as the ice cubes fall into that tall glass with a tinkle. Lick that water from your fingertips. Crack the cap open with that churchkey. Pour. Ah, joy, eternity, nirvana, satori, utopia. The carbonation sings to you its melodious song, and the bubbles rise up in fraternal harmony. Take one moment to wipe the sweat from your brow before you dive in. Then raise the chalice to your parched chapped lips and drink of it. Feel it rushing through you. Gulp. In your chest there is new vigor, in your heart there is a new song. Fall over the cataract of ecstasy. Wallow in the taste of true freedom that the sweet amber fluid has given you. When you have done, take a moment to stare at that sacred sepulcher, to marvel at it shining in the light. In that Promethean script, you will see the one thing in this miserable existence that is always good and always true. Always Coca-Cola.

50.