The window is up; sounds of rain crinkle in, like the static in the voice of a faraway caller.
My cats are perched, one grey, one tabby, listening with me, as we stare at miniature mudslides glaze gener- -ations of ants, probably clinging onto strands of grass; waiting to become the past.
I think of success and what it means to me. I look in my wallet and count one-two-three; one reason to like the rain; two reasons to embrace strife; three reasons to consume pain; enough zeroes to choose a life not smothered in mud, not one where I cling onto the grass.
I dream of a dream where my dollar bills can last.