The rain gathers in the gutters. The rain showers from the eaves. Slugs and snails take to the sidewalks, easing their way towards their next meal. The day begins and ends cool and gray. The pavement making mirrors, the sky painted slate. This is where the night unwinds. This is how all the lights go down.
I stare into the ceiling, I watch the shadows claim the walls. Outside the rain gossips and chatters, falling in slow sheets and glittering lines. Outside there is traffic and weather and human interest stories, all the makings of local news. I lean against a chair, feeling the misgivings of my architecture and all the aches of age. The clock slows, bending each hour against its frame. I settle into each moment of this vast decline.
All in all, it is the wrong kind of silence. It is the sort of settling that only feeds defeat. Options are lost as the mind becomes static, thoughts wander dully through the graveyards of memory. Sort through the probable, use up the words. Watch the sky for trouble, watch your back for the next bite of chance. The seasons all fall into place, more or less as expected. The rain falls into the growing night.
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