When, it rains, I can't usually tell whether its morning of night. The clouds block out the sun, forcing the world into quite confusion. I don't know if people are waking up, or just coming home. I don't know if the whores on the streets have been here all night or are starting a night's work. The world is mournful, and sad. Nothing anyone can do will stop the rain. That's why everyone is inside. Warm, lessening to the down pour on their roofs.
My boots squish in the trash people have left behind. Wet newspaper seems to stick to everything I need to touch.
I hate the rain. I hate everything it brings. So I stand up, and try to get away. Down any street or ally, I don't care. I just want to get out of the rain.
No one ever seems to notice me. Only I, them. I see the young girls, leaning into car door, the vomit covered college boys, and the cougars who have eyeing them. I see the fights that break out, and the men who grip girl's arms. The worst part is, when the rain washes away, whether it's in to morning, or night, the city will be just as dirty, only better concealed. So I keep walking, and watch quietly. I watch them all drift off, leaving me.
How does all theses terrible, cheating, smoking people have some where to be, while I don't? Then I remember. It is all my father's fault. Hades.
Hair sticks to my skeleton face; rain drops sticking to my eyelashes. I become more aware of myself. How I step, how short my fingers actually are, as I grip a cold, wet railing.
The rain is a horrible reminder. A reminder of how little I have and how I have too much of the wrong things.
Drip, drip, drip: the sounds I hate. The only sounds that make me aware.
Aware, yet I still have no ides of the time of day. Darkness shrouds my idea of dawn and dusk. In this confusion, I happened to wander upon a time of deep gladness and a raging, consuming fire, the same two which have been fighting against each other inside of my heat for the longest of times.
