This rain, that sky. The weather reports have unanimously decided that the best place to be, right now, is indoors. The pots on the wall are making their presence felt; the dust on the floor cower at the lack of warmth. My mind is an empty room and no, I did not intend for that line to sound like that Death Cab For Cutie song. I guess what this is, is an exercise. Self-imposed and done with much slowness, after what has seemed like an entire ocean of procrastination, of excuses dressed up as reasons, of thinking, and, finally, of over thinking. It's a disease, I surmise, that I will never really get cured of. But a really bad cough is just as bad. In the space between that line and this, several words passed before my eyes: pedantry, decrepit, lucid, distance, meander. Alliteration unintended, attempt at meaning, nil. The order of the words elude me; I merely typed from memory. The perfunctory movement of a curtain's hem has disturbed the stillness, from this shut window, of what storm there is outside. There is cadence in the sound of rain and thunder. Or, maybe not.