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December 4, 2008
The rain sounds so different in every city. The bombastic rashness of the monsoons roars. The Pennsylvanian drizzle tip toes across the roads, amplifying the sound of every moving tree, drowning out bells tolling in old towers. The rain can be sudden and angry, plaintive and weak. It can be hesitant and haunting like a prayer only partially answered. But it always embraces you with the familiarity of a constant lover, lingering until it is irrevocably changed and you’re a naked version of yourself: the last ripple in a pond disturbed slowly, steadily. A repeated beginning without an end.