You are the ocean. You are immeasurably deep, freakishly broad and impossibly, infuriatingly, terrifyingly, horribly, horribly, horribly dry.
It is a filth at your edges, a gunk built up at your corners. It burrows under your surface and spreads scabs like crab shells crusting over your core. It grows. It grows. It covers more of you, greedy for liquid, drinking you arid. It pours off your sister, the land, in oily sheets that blot up water and congeal into gelatinous globs, like your jellyfish but too solid, too opaque. Too hungry.
What will you be soon, when it takes you? An imbalance. An aberration. And so dry, so dry, so dry.