Indeed it is wood, yet the rain is indifferent, rattling nonchalantly on a porch. And yes it is the lungs, yet the rain isn't bothered,
catching my quick foot by daylight still. A nightly night will follow, henceforth must I crawl, for the rain can't catch my quick hands.
In this nightly night will I heavily breathe. In it will I be covered in the sheets of fear. Oh, how I adore but the sonority of the bell,
it has rung. Indeed it is the door, yet while here I crawl, where are my keys again? Inside my attire, where common folk is clad the least. My feet, indeed. Splendiferous, a perception so seldom foretold that a guess not drenched in error only I behold. Nightly attire it is not, hereby I assume, drenched in error as I am, no nightly tree today will look between wool and ankle.
Horrendous, no doubt. An error I have made, for the nightly trees know for sure, while long I crawl the floor, the rain hath catched the feet before, and therefore too, locked stays the door.
Unbeknownst, no whereabouts, no doubt they know my secrets now. Should rain halt, I could run, yet in the floor my hands are sunk. A ray of light is eaten by, the nightly tree, it meets my eyes. Forsaken, forsaken, forsaken I. The resonant bell has swung good bye. This nightly night is where I die, alas these nightly trees are right. Oh right, an iron key I left beneath, where people look for iron keys, the doormat indeed. I will go inside then.