Let it Rain, Let it Rain, Let it Rain

Cold arse rain. Deep in the chill factor, the blushed faced boy grins, not happy-like, into the whipping water. Summon the demons of the black time. Yeah, well, they say we’re the most depressed in the world. We, as though ‘we’ are all component parts of the same disaster. But I see some sad folks. Some screamed through megaphone fabrics and other let their faces sink into their skulls. You, news, you don’t fool me. What next: ‘Rain is Wet’? And will it make it seem more real, more wet, worse than before? It may.
But then only that you, Mr. News, told us what’s what and that’ll make it all the fouler. Like you’ve stamped something evil upon every drop. The people, well, who knows? And who can say and still maintain that they are a humble assemblage of limbs and wants and hopes. Whoops, the hope dream.
I’m going back out into the rain. And it will be a simple rain. Only weather. I won’t worry about what you’ll call it tomorrow, or in a few seconds time. And who wouldn’t want to fly away, above the heavy clouds, anyway what with your unending sermon of catastrophe. This hymn of disappointment may itself even be responsible for the congregation of clouds above the gray checked surface. But the people will take it; with a scowl, but they will take it. We will soldier on. And we need all the help we can get. But if we are miserable, let us be miserable. At least it’s pure, not tampered with. In my eyes, mixed with rain and tears (ecstatic tears, mind you) the world looks like a smeared fireworks display; crammed with the noises of controlled explosions; from larynx to ear drum; internal combustion to setting sun; the stratospheric cataract that bares no grudge. You’ll stick to your story. I know what’s what. And you know what?
I’ll stick with the rain.

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Generic Regret – on – Sea

It was late and it didn’t feel late.

A faint glow lit up one side of the hill. Had ‘they’ landed? Was it just a bunch of drunks setting fire to things out of boredom? A sacrifice maybe? One wonders these things when the air is dead of sound and one has a mouth stuffed with dry bagel. A slight frown of concentration, toes wriggling inside trainers, a few spots of rain tapping the top of the skull. And what about the twinkling of the lights across the channel? Surely they weren’t really twinkling? An illusion of twinkle caused by every rain drop and particle between the source of the light and my eyes?

And why is it that cigarettes give me toothache?

No answers materialised.

Only questions, questions. No sooner had one faded to less than a flea fart in the grey matter when another stomped in, chest all puffed up and demanding my complete attention.

My hands shook for no reason. The past three hours had come and gone without any memory of their passing; like so many hours, lost in pointless, abstract thought.

Ha. Balls.

It seemed as though it could easily be early in the morning. But it wasn’t morning. If it were morning there would be things to do, places to go. Instead, stuck with that insufferable time of night (11:22, or 23:22), matters had become serious and in need of urgent attention. The whole world, all of a sudden, appeared on the brink of total collapse. Issues were simply not being discussed. Time was a-wasting where there was no time to waste.

The glow disappeared.

Standing in the cold and tapping trainers in puddles, it was as though time might freeze, the world become lost, unless one answer to one question was revealed.

Instead, I picked my nose.

My nails had grown at what seemed an unreasonable rate in just one week.

Why did that cat always stare at me?

And why did she have to say that she just wanted to be friends?