It is raining so heavily outside, I find myself drawn to the
window. Lean on the wooden frame and press my face to
the glass: my spectacles touch the window pane.
I am no observer of the world at large, but this street
shows so much. The rain forms, wearily, in the same
gutters, the same uneven garden paths. The sky frowns
on this brickwork atrocity. The street where I live.
telephone lines for a spider's web against the sea
of grey that is the sky. Somewhere the sun is hiding,
afraid to show itself in such company as this.
Among the battered, functional parked cars, one jolts into
its headlights like flares in this rain. The vehicle
grinds out, over to the next street, and is gone.
A momentary flicker of life.
And yet, there is another. An arguing couple pass by under
my gaze. They are in their early twenties, and they
gesticulate with cigarettes and beer cans, as to some
discrepancy in money. For a little while, love will be dead.
And yet, even these half-derelicts cannot withstand the
ever-present fury of the rain. Cowed, they stagger into
a house, in order to continue their battle alone.
The rain intensifies, at a respectfully steady pace: the
rain is in no hurry, and can afford to be patient.