Rain

I'm sitting here, near my window, and the heavy sky is throbbing above in deep grunting discolored voices, threatening the pane with ominous liquid possibilities. I quite like the word liquid. It's terse, handsome and upright. If I were to bestow upon it the vestiges of a human form, I would imagine it to be a man sharply dressed in a black tuxedo, reserved, graceful, and erudite, but one who has hidden beneath his charming facade a life, a disposition, a history quite sinister. Now I can hear the noise of rain outside. A river of sounds in which the individual drops have sacrificed their identities and produced after an eternity of fall a moment of both aural and visual poignancy - a perfect pear, tranquil and transparent, upon whose surface the Sun had poured the fruits of his deliberations, disintegrating into its formless constituent after touching the philistine contours of my window. I also notice that the vague impression of rain which I receive filtered through the window is probably more beautiful, more evocative than the actual rain itself - as if its essence, the rainness of rain, has been distilled through the clear glass and I receive not the knowledge of this particular instance of precipitation but a deeper more abstract experience which stands proxy to all those junctions of my life which were made slower and more beautiful by the cold, wet, and cozy presence of rain. The weather is brisk, the air quietened by the steady beat of falling drops - a low constant note, a canvas which has been uniformly painted in a dark hue, the background taste of salt, the default response to the questions of a questionnaire - an abstraction which is chipping away reality at its edges and inducing in me the fantastic images which are the harbinger of deep sleep.