The woman that held a book with paintings of that famous German painter gnawed on her lower lip. She gnawed, pushing her short teeth into the matrace of dry flesh that was her lower lip. Every bite a thought. Every bite a doubt. Every bite pinching a pattern of her thoughts into the porous texture, carving a path like canyons to walk through. Already three miles deep she found a rare drop of the desperately needed fluid. The cut gave birth to a fountain of relief and regretful pleasure.