It’s sort of hard to describe. Everyone looks down, always down. The even cold breaks on the backs and arms and legs of the oppressed.
Some take it as a sign, an omen not leave their house. Others, like me, have no choice. We venture off the lighter path into the foray. Our breaks are slow and our minds are numb, but we’ll get there.
It’s noisy and quiet, strong and light, cold and clear. We are a cult devoted to it’s life and purpose.
The pitter-patter so near our hearts is external, I assure you.
It’s not special, but it will make our cities shine. It’s not special but I’m dying to obtain it. We’re not special but it falls on us all the same.
I speak, of course, of the rain, and nothing else.