Drink of the Gods

The clock ticks. A bit of sun reflects idly through the window and bounces around the floor. Camelion pours out his second cup of tea of the day.
"Hi!" says the freshly-poured tea. "I'm new."
"Hey there," says the dregs of the previous cup. "What's your name?"
Camelion picks up the new cup and sips at it. It's shocked and confused.
"I'm shocked and confused," it admits.
"A bit of a mouthful, isn't it? Can I just call you newbie?"
The newbie shrugs in a liquid, tea-like way.
"This is the table," says the dregs. "The hand of the gods made it, as they made you and me, and even now it holds you with its very fingers."
"The gods are drinking me," the newbie observes. Camelion blows a little on it to cool it down, humming to himself.
"It's the way of things," the dregs explain. "If we did not lose ourselves and die, we would become too numerous and fill the table."
"Isn't it lonely, though?" asks the newbie.
Camelion puts down the full teacup, picks up the other one and pours it down the sink. A fading echo bubbles through the pipes.
"I barely knew you, and now you're gone," the newbie mourns.
A few minutes pass in silence, except for the sound of slow sipping.
Camelion pours out his third cup of tea for the day.