We trip in depth. The particle theory in the green mop of rain clouds surprises the running trees. People sting zest into mainframes and coast for forgiveness. This is the radiant day of rain.
After closing the silicon doors, into which eerie family noises segregate with transponders (but why?), the rush of pencil thin possible versions arrives with lucky membranes. The coast will probably be clear.
Everyone looks to the coast. Are turkeys so elegant as to fly across the street? Is it too early when the red sun rises behind dominant rain clouds? Would science follow the fiction that we've prayed to?
Under the questions, a gummy sense of saying so. Others say so too, they must be too proud. The dodgy apparatus of remembering to return with epiphany, Persephone's sister, qualifies us for ready winks at the proposed sun of tomorrow. We're reading a book right now, more or less.
When that book is finished, done, burned into the brain, then the rain can accommodate another rush for politics. George Bush is a season, ticked off regularly until zero makes the finish. Much dramatic interplay within that story. Then we see lightning, a building tsunami, and a quiescent run of tornado days. Summer, it hits us again. The story becomes more fluid as we look
