July has not proved a barrier to the march of the low clouds. God's tears. Heaven's milk.
It's raining!
The rain is random and fat tonight. Slow. It splats onto the third-floor open patio of my 3-story row house in big drops, and then the patio below that in medium drops and, finally, through the cracks of that patio and, seeming to avoid my slicker-covered head, hits this laptop in drops of its original, fat size. One loud drop at a time finds the keyboard, which I try to locate to wipe up before it sinks into the crack between the T and the G. Another finds screen, where a drop hits the top and smears down, slowed by the electronic warmth.
I'm complicit in the destruction of my computer, it seems.
Perhaps I'm daring the rain, in its randomness, in its relentlessness, to spare us both, to let me write something tonight out here in the superior wireless signal because I feel like writing.
Alas. I don't know why I think it will obey.
4 comments:
@Karin. You compose under such conditions because you must write. As Falkner wrote, each of us endures "the human heart in conflict with itself". I believe Harlan Ellison once said he used to type until he bruised his fingers. You're in good company.
heaven's milk?
@Justin.
Yes.
Are you going to report me to the Metaphor Police?
The Metaphor Police already has a department for this kind of investigation.
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