12 a.m.
     the rain stutters against my window-- erratic, wild. the curtains are drawn, the lights extinguished, but to my eardrums, it's as if a symphony of heartbeats are thrumming in counterpoint to my own. the noise swells in my head, an unrelenting crescendo, ffff, the windows shivering. then is fades to white noise, a lullaby to lull me to restless sleep, haunted by a thousand heartbeats overwhelming the staccato in my chest.
7 a.m.
     the sun is in a coffin of clouds. a cityscape bathed in the heavy blue of night swims before my eyes. we must still be locked in a moment before sunrise, before even last night's twilight. still, the rain drums around me. head cottony with sleep, it climbs up and up, inch by inch, drowning me in streets trapped in endless night.
4 p.m.
     people say rain leaves the world clean and new. In the limbo between raindrops and clear skies, this city is grey. it's as if the clouds that papered the sky have fallen and blanketed building and sidewalks instead. colors are muted until my city is a palette of mud and smoke and watered down dust. i am a tissue-paper doll in this diorama of concrete and glass and steel. the rain has washed me away as well.