Written by Jake Costello.
Graphic by Emma Robinson.
Rain falls with the ticking of a distant clock:
the hour hand with the winds,
the minute hand with the claps of thunder,
the second hand with each droplet that falls.
Ominous clouds raise from beyond the horizon,
with them a million and million more of their little fellows,
ready for the two-minute plunge.
will slam into concrete with a silent boom.
will dampen the hairs of a thousand heads.
will strike cars only to be wiped away.
will flow into turbulent streams throwing themselves down sewer drains.
will land upon drying dirt to give life to dying green.
So many- it’s a wonder if the world isn’t drowning a droplet at a time.
And it’s raining.
who does not distinguish himself,
in any discernible way.
A momentary blur,
lost in the sea of each’s periphery.
He stands at the corner of 10th and Elm,
all damp and dark.
Takes a step with the right,
never makes it to the left.
I saw it from not too far off,
saw blood mix in rain,
until they were the same.
A flash here and there,
as they pulled him from the street.
His clouded eyes,
caught in a waking dream.
I stared at my right foot for a long while,
until other feet started shuffling along,
so I followed in kind,
right then left,
and with a great step,
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