When it rains like this my mind goes crazy. A million golden stories take over normal brain function, can't tell you why exactly, maybe it's the somber sky, the way clouds hang so close to our heads they don't ripple like normal cotton candy clouds do, maybe it's the way the winds howl when you're on the sixteenth floor of the building and if you close your eyes the howling gets wilder it begins to sound like this vast horde of eleven hundred ghosts bleeding imaginary reasons to knock on office windows and scare the shit out of ... , maybe it's the way the trees lean in orchestrated frailty, like it can sense the coming of something resembling the King of the Trees, this giant crawling banyan tree wreaking havoc as it grows out of the earth much like a nasty disease spreading throughout the planet, maybe it's the way the air is colder than normal, as if some ancient spell was waiting to be cast, as if it has waited a million years, after an unbelieveably evil witch doctor who eats human liver every night earned the ire of the village priest because the witch doctor had peeled open a neighbor's daughter and left her body out to dry for everyone to see, the village priest's passion for vengeance crossing over the after life, dragging every person thereafter who will walk upon the ground where the girl died into an unexplainable life of misery and disgusting illnesses, maybe it's the way everybody wants to go home, their minds collectively deciding not to think about work, with a force so strong and wanting and lustful there are actual wrinkles in the fabric of time, people appear less real because they really are someplace else: back home, in bed, watching TV, it's a bit like in between blinks you realize there's really not one soul inside the office, maybe it's because the roads are darker, like everything in the entire material world is moving and dancing to some secret organic song, maybe it's the feeling of being displaced, and unwanted, and being tossed to the winds, that tells my mind it had better find something it knows like the back of its hand, because in a place with rain like this, things get lost, things get wet, things get muddy and dirty and insane, and since the madwoman of the house is hungry as ever for moments like this, moments out of the ordinary, moments that come at you so unexpectedly you do mini-jigs when you finally feel the feeling of the new-born writer, all ready for words and stories and worlds without rules, that maybe all your maybes are really alternative realities, that maybe just thinking about them makes them real, in another plane/dimension/reality, all your dreams walk the earth like kings and queens who know their way around, wild and cherished like a funny friend who will die tomorrow in a misplaced car accident, that maybe all your maybes take form in another person's dream, that maybe all your maybes are being written down as we speak by somebody from across the globe, who had the exact same maybes the day before, that maybe all your maybes are part of your genes, the way salmon swim against gravity to return to the fish nursery to die, that maybe all your maybes are echoes of who you are, and since rain is water and water is life, maybe by some weird tangential connection storms inspire such rebirths, like maybe God pouring grace in the shiny, sleet-like visible drops of rain.