It is a silent painter, a thief, in the way it steals upon you with its grey palette over buildings, over roads, over skies.
She is, she supposes, in some detached fashion, fascinated by its temperament – the different personalities that emerges; pulsating, subsiding, eventual death.
And so she finds herself staring at the furious lines cast from above, as the silent symphony it makes drowns her thoughts, drowns her sight, drowns her lungs.
She can still feel the rhythmic drumming of its coarse path onto the ground as she slips into oblivion, and vaguely, she wonders if it ever rains on the other side.
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105 words
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