Rain does rouse the writer's spirit.
Writing is like having a desk covered in mounds and voluminous folds of tulle. You've got to sink your hands in the middle, elbow-deep, and part your way to a clear space.
And like glitter after an ornament or dried petals after pruning, the tulle does still mar the space you've tried to clean.
Brushes against your forearms as you move.
Falls into your lap.
Surrounds you.
But what would I write if I could get to the very cleanest clearest spot, untouched by anything the world could offer?
Only this:
I've gone somewhere unspeakably unreachable and I don't know if I'll be coming back.
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