Water.

The whole world is turning into water. The whole world is being flushed down the drainpipes in huge, tumultuous squalls. Rain is pounding against the panes and little rivulets run togehter to form larger rivulets, until the whole window is suffused in tears. Although the movement of liquid on its smooth, hard surface does certainly not get to it, does certainly not penetrate. Glass shall not cry, anorganic and perfect, untouchable.



It doesn't seem to want to stop crying any time soon. Sometimes the wind dives in sending the loose bits about the house into spasm, it ripples through them like a sob; brief, painful paroxysm. Then, relaxation, and the rain comes to the fore again.

This is not a steady, reassuring trickle, not a steady, pluvial downpour. Nothing about it is even, or remotely comforting. It is breaks and pauses, it is tense and hectic and restless. It is a moaning woman who wanders distraught, inspiring fear and disgust of equal proportion in all she passes. This is no rain for pity.

It turns everything into a raw, abrasive mass, full of jagged edges and malignant corners. It glares at you with a diffuse, grey brightness that mercilessly destroys all the smooth comforts of darkness, without granting you the relief of light. It will never let you forget the evils of your world, on the contrary, it will point them out, accentuate them. This is no rain for pity.