It's raining, and I don't know why. The clouds are so small and wispy that any moisture they deliver is like a mortal sacrifice on their part. There are times when I think I'm like these wispy clouds. Angry, dark, but ultimately insubstantial. You would never think that such a piece of insignificance can do anything, but you can't stem the tide of surprise when you find a cloud that can do anything.
Lightning flashes, electrons leap from cloud to cloud, dark blue and black mingle like cold tides in the ocean. I can sit here typing for hours about it, in front of my little blue and white screen, I could even take a picture, but it's too dark to do the storm the justice it deserves. Among mediocrity I am a trivia, as is anyone who can determine that they are something other than mediocrity, but to the storm, we are but pathways. We send electrons as well as the next metal rod or pine tree, the storm cares not for the miniature storms we hold in our heads, demure and timid compared to the white-hot wrath and spontinaety that dwells in the evening dark. Our thoughts are but mere emulations of the brilliance up above, and yet we think so highly of our abilities.
The lightning, that stirred the soup of our creation, has now lost its favour with us. It now seeks to strike us down when we grow too bold, and reach too high among our terrestrial peers.
Poetry and philosophy aside, I'll have more pictures and drawings to put up tommorrow, when I have a day off from work. Till then, keep cool and don't listen to the angry voices.
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