On Rain and Human Nature

The sputtering, spouting drops of rain have kept up their pitter-patter-pitter-patter pattern pitting man against nature as the surrounding and engulfing mist flutters, flows, and flocks through the brazen backwater backyards, the laughably unoriginal gray tile roofs that mar the far-reaching skyline: marching one-by-one incessantly like an ambiguously-sided army down the neighborhood streets in painted-on streaks; the animosity that one feels towards such a view can be shared alone by those who crazily, almost crudely crave the sunlight like it's heroin, those who spit on the mere idea of suburbia as though it was a morally wretched thief trying to steal away the close contentment of the countryside or the haphazard harangue of harping noise within the city limits, and especially those who bitterly mock a cloudy day and blame it on things well out of their control: the flow of the mist is to simulated by the flow of the mind, the love of all that is natural and divine, the meditation of Mother Earth and Father Time in an amalgamation of a fuzzy, breathing sky and the ebb and flow of the pitter-patter-pitter-patter pattern that haunts these streets like a spirit or a sprite, mischevious in their mystery yet helpful in their haunting; this false dichotomy of man and nature only serves to bring the two together in ethereal hues.