>soy foam, rain and portland

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The rain is falling. Sometimes quickly, slowing down intermittently and finding a balance amidst what is generally considered surface existence. It comes without notice, catches you and changes a moment that was once in the presence of warm light.

I hate the rain. When it falls, it seems to pour on me. With the protection of the umbrella, and without a touch of water- I am chilled to my core. Cold. My moment must change now to accomodate this rain.

But there are days when the rain gives me some content. It tells me stories, as each word drops on the window pane, drenching the glass with wisdom. Somedays it doesn’t tell me much. It tells me things we already know. “We live in the inevitable.” rain says, “Alone, we are minuscular, but together we aggregate and comprise a galactic size.”

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Sometimes, the rain seems wise. “Who are we?” the rain demands, “we wash away, we are absorbed, we are nothing to the naked eye. Though we know our purpose, we live in our fate and we will exist no matter what.”

I listen to rain stories. As I sit in my the delicate web of reality, relationships and tangibles, I hope that my feeling of mortality will be defeated by the wisdom and wash of the rain.

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