It hasn’t rained every minute of the day, only most of them. At lunch, I walked back from the shops again (went to try on leopard print shoes but they pinched, came back with a lamp that didn’t work, returned it; bought two candles instead, and a consolation avocado) with my grey striped hair loosely tousled, in my black faux fur, looking like some kind of damp forest beast.
Before the rain I listened to birds sing, trill, caw and call- the sound of gulls involuntarily invoking winter sea dips- I could feel the waves swoosh at my calves, the soft salinity, the foam-fuzz.
In the rain, I listened.
The percussion of it, the white noise of it, the way it wraps you in your space.
I was a soggy happy beast hugging an avocado, dreaming of swimming and candlelight.
Later I will drive home, it will be dark. Whatever the weather, the car’s headlights will scan over green verges and the spring flowers will glow. Everytime they elicit awe- real, edge-of-the-physical-world reverence- as though what I see is fully sentient, is rows of frilled eyes looking back at me.
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