“Taking a hot shower is nothing short of sorcery,” he said to me. 

“What?” I looked around. The voice spoke to my soul, but was totally out of place. I was at MoMA’s awesome Rain Room and had accidentally walked into the owner of the voice. 

 

He continued. 

 

“Feelings, cold and clothed, guarded and godless on the outside, step inside the magic curtained closet, and rise, enchanted and empowered, naked and invincible. 

 

Ideas, once languishing, disparate in the dry world grow connected by bridges made of steam. ‘But you can't walk on steam!’ say the naysayers. Ah, but you can when you're taking a hot shower. 

 

They say any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Nowadays, nobody marvels at anyone else's shower tech. But in the days of old, heating cauldrons of water over wood-burning fires, even a minute-long shower was an elite luxury. So I try not to take it for granted.”

 

I started to agree but he cut in—

 

“And don't scold me about wasting water, talk to the frackers. It might be a minor indulgence. But it is my sanctuary. And in it, I get much, much more than clean.”

 

Then, he was gone. I stood there, letting the rain fall down. Wondering, was that a dream? Had I lost my sanity? But it wasn't and I hadn't. And, let me tell you, I’ll scream it from the rooftops: I felt the thunder.