There is never silence

There is never silence, but, you can never discern a single source. The rain comes together pattering the water in the parking lot, celestial infinities of individual water droplets in a continuously falling body. Everything, every one, is lost in the greatness of the storm. The flush of it all together amounts to a deep internal quiet, an airless security. If each drop had a moment, an instant alone, flashing against the tar, you would be quickly at the end of this. The possibilities of the days that conspire to determine your worth would be exhausted by the flicker of rain, all at once, in a morning.

There is a long clear stretch. The sky is brilliant beige and tired heat pastes the asphalt with steam. You put your feet out from the shelter. The air vibrates. It is afternoon and rain is dusting the horizon and dissolving the tall lamps in the distance and all of the hard things that are left out in it. The air is electric around you and in your nose and lungs.

Your footsteps are awake. You breathe through them. Their pattering whispers through concussion in your breath. Your eyes squint against bright breeze washing across the canyonettes and rifts off of the main thoroughfare. Bits of paper and fluff and foam totter and swing in the pulses of dry air that cross the street. The light filling the clouds plastered high arching from the west doesnt show onto the faces of buildings or turns of branches. The air itself is light and hot with the coming rain. Everything is momentarily shadowless and bright in the round. The papers and frothy bits turning over on the air are flat white reflectors. Your hands and feet washing through the street are a coagulation of charged gas, a trapped accident.

You are wash away by so little. So little holds you together. In the flash, a remote thought, between breeze and the sting of the afternoon rain you can go to bits. The moment is neither yours nor yours to be in and it is creeping with malicious assortments of living questions. When nothing is in control there is no predestination, no desire, an insurmountable buffeting of your particulate flesh, you yearn to be given over to deafness or narcotic sleep, folded in distraction, or to be ravaged by the vacuum into enough small pieces that any communicative notions of emotion propping up your body and experiencing the passage of time are severed and dulcified. You relate to nothing.

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