In hopes of concentrating, I've written the meanderings of a very sad person. I don't know who she is, maybe I'll write her story sometime:
Rain fell that night. Not a particularly interesting fact, I suppose. Rain falls most nights in winter. But every time I think about him all I see's the rain. I hear it. And feel it in my hair. I don't smell it. You can't smell the rain here. It doesn't announce itself. Just comes and is, until it goes. Sometimes when I dream all I see is the rain and I know I've gone back there; to that night. When I wake up, my face is wet. Laura says it's because I've been crying. But I know. I know it's that damned rain.
