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Impressionistic rainy city.

"The mystery of life is the plainest part of it. The clouds and curtains of darkness, the confounding vapours, these are the daily weather of the world." --Chesterton

Let It Be.

A scurrying misshaped thought, but still a thought,
has found me inbetween my watering chores
as sometimes still, the night's veil yields us stars
long after we had ceased on them to dote.
I started to say, not fewer than when thrills
were lush, do insights find me even now:
except i hardly write them down--which is
face-saving but a little late to growl.
Or gratitude (that will do for grace) has lost
its compass in the phosphor-lidded sky...
Nevertheless, against this williwaw
of folly, other things first sacrificed
perturb me more, that flash in sickle-feast.

Data Bone Touch.