Rain smells like existential angst

There is no better way to summarize a lifetime than a single rainy afternoon.

Countless raindrops– and surely, every single one has a different flavour and its own poetry to recite, but only a God would be able to know them all. It is man’s vocation to be biased.

Every man is a raindrop; a lively instant of plummeting, and then dissolving.

The sky hangs low. Watercolorish clouds are brittle and insubstantial, yet the sky is solidly white. At their edges, the clouds turn powdery, crumbling over the tops of taller trees.

The thoroughly practical man will look at the drenched scene and see it as nothing but a nuisance, unfold an umbrella and proceed. But he is still, inescapably, a part of the scheme.