#open journal
It rained again. The last four days, it poured rain like bullets and flooded the sidewalks and gutters of my street. I sat downtown in the middle of the night waiting for the bus in the pouring rain, and I reveled in the familiar beat of each drop against my body. I slept with my window open and a lullaby upon my leaking skylight.
This morning, I woke to smoke. In my lungs, in my room, in the sky. Not from my home or anyone nearby, not enough for anyone else to notice yet, but I saw it. What could be so dry to still burn after four days of heavy rain?
