tell me a story.
It was a long time coming, the eventuation of my realization that rain that clatters from the sky, that strikes and fractures on the road is not gem encrusted, nor ensilvered, nor etched with message, nor formed by hands that love the rhyme and rhythm of its fall. Rain is rain, and beats us cold, and there is no special punishment in the beating save that which u gather from being an incidental obstruction to its unerring and inevitable downward destiny.