24.

This morning rain is faint, almost Victorian. Rain totters about with a skim-milk wrist held to its forehead, collapses on the divan. Rain seems not to be long for this world.

Outside the cars swish on by, ignoring rain, the possibility of it, the outside world. Who cares! Rain has nothing on them. Rain can’t get in behind these sealed windows. Rain is barely there, not worth noticing, another dismissable part of the world nobody quite inhabits anymore.

Rain’s days are numbered, it seems. The way rain does things is not the way things are done, not any longer. Rain doesn’t have any interface, it isn’t mediated. It lies there shuddering. Not very long now, rain murmurs quietly to itself.