in which poetic ideas turn banal. on a dime.

aw, it's raining, kid. that nice, not too cold but not anything resembling hot rain. it's pittering and pattering all against the buildings outside. everything's all shiny. you love that shiny thing that happens. look, you can pull your chair up to one of the open windows, stare out of the apartment with a steaming cup of freshly pressed coffee. smell that smell of the rain and the breeze. listen as that perfect rainy day cd flows around you. think those centered, focused and relaxed thoughts. how poetic. how european.

but you see, kid, you sentimental fuck, in your intense concentration on that one key change that happens right after the third chorus in track seven, you have allowed yourself to get soaked. fortunately, the large area of cold wetness is limited to the part of your body that you strategically planted against the window in order to smell that smell. well, smell you did, brilliant one. now go change your damn clothes.