about the progress and reward
I just had a glass of water. The exact process by which I enjoyed such a simple delight included grabbing a lowball glass and pressing it against a tab embed in an electric fridge in my kitchen room. A light came up, and ice fell through a plastic chute into my glass. My grandfather used to drink water, as all people do, when he was young. He rarely drunk cold water, but when he did, he chipped of ice from a several hundred kilograms heavy block of ice he worked seeding, cutting and transporting. His job included staying inside a bone-chilling room with almost no temperature protecting garments and moving and actioning machines that build a massive chunk of ice in the hot, clammy environment of coastal Tela, a little banana town in the Caribbean shore of a little banana republic in Central America. He stayed indoors for hours, listening to the deafening hum of the compressors, working near mortal perils including old pressure valves, humongous vats and defective railings. So