Unlike Shirley Manson who's only happy when it rains, I find myself plucking poetry from the pitter patter.
Some thoughts running through my head on the subway:
The red of her dress draped like a wet curtain clung to her blocky body.
His eyes met mine flooding me with every base emotion, particularly envy, fury, and a bittersweet victory.
I could feel the desert within as he fidgeted with the gold band on his finger. His loneliness was palpable.
The trench coat dripped dry against my shoe. Another would have spoken up, maybe in a huff, but I quite liked the sensation.
Her thin almond eyelids lay closed in a sleep that resembled death but I her hearbeats reverberated through the subway car like Juliet in her tomb. Where was her Asian Romeo? (played by Ken Wantabe)
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