Rain
Walking through rain which fall soft like silk, the kind of rain which seem pretty and harmless until you wander through it without an umbrella. Then you notice that small, fine droplets are very good at making one very, very wet.
I recall the same paths, the same thoughts. The same flowers, the same grass, the same trees, the same metaphors. I listened to his words, her words. His words of her words. Their words. Words which soak my soul, as does the delicate summer rain.
I rediscovered a means of breaking my nails, otherwise long forgotten. It's the "Corrente" from Bach's Partita No. 1.
Posted by sniffles at January 22, 2002 10:50 PM