A rainy night, a silent place and a good book. I feel the echoes of the years as I repeat a ritual timeworn in it’s familiarity yet simultaneous in it’s escapism and emphasis of something missing. Tonight, it is the hollowness that remains. The epitome of cold comfort as rain falls on the loving and the lonely without favour or fervour. On nights like this, I can see the edges of my future with inner vision. The cynic in me quails while the romantic inside cries. And the rain comes down.
Caught in the moment early this morning, I put this on Facebook, edited to meet the character count limit. This is the full piece.