Drizzles falling from the sky, cascading from that great
expanse where all the pressures of the world sought
expression through the thunder's ramble and lighting's
flash. And you walk under that magnificent dome of a stormy
February and feel how the wind that rustles through the
trees and howls amongst the buildings moves you in a place
so deep it couldn't even be rightfully called a heart nor
any other name with such physical an expression.

On afternoons like this you go outside knowing not when
you'll come back, knowing not where your feet will take you,
knowing not who'll guide their way. It's a day of paddling
thoughts and memories; it's a day of allowing all those
meaningless words, smiles and scorns to be washed off and
down the road. Say your farewells, you will not find them.
Not unless you dig in the trampled mud behind you. This is a
day for remembering one last time before bidding a memory
farewell.

This is not a time when you turn your head and search the
crowd around you, a storm is calling, let no stranger
mislead you. This is a time when you become an element that
interacts with the unrelenting nature, a warm presence
weaving a thread of life in the harsh, dramatic tapestry
where gray and heart collide.

Know a new language; abandon the one they said was your
native. Look at a place above your feet and beneath the
unrealized raindrops. Let a tear fall, heed no stranger.
Don't go home though your heart grows lonely; don't turn
back before darkness falls, you've recalled your
inspiration.