The rain did not fall down straight as it should, it fell sidewards, eastwards,
Westwards, southwards and every other wards that God cared to imagine. It fell in sheets, blankets, quilts, and, when that was not the case, it hung in a fine mist - blinding the world. Tonight it is, as an Englishman would say, tipping it down. The rain pounds the island with an impressive ferocity - thrashing its thousand fists into the already sodden grass. Though that is nothing. Not in comparison to the sea. The sea who is indistinguishable from the sky in this night of rain. Who wraps her watery arms around the lone lighthouse, whispering sweet nothings in its ear one moment, and sending the keeper's lantern swinging with a granite breaking strike the next.
It is fortunate, perhaps, that the sentinel of these waters is fond of such weather. He likes how the oil in his lantern shivers with each wave, how the wind whistles as it crawls through the seemingly non-existent cracks in his walls. What he likes most of all, though, is the solitude. No boat will dare brave these waves. Nor will post or people reach him in such winds. Most would regard his seclusion with distaste, wondering in the privacy of their minds how one could survive such solitude. But he likes it. And that is all that matters.
There are many reasons why a man, or indeed a woman, would wish to exist this way. But the most conspicuous is undoubtedly humanity, with our impressive ability to snub others.