it’s when the #rain stops falling that we have to worry, not when it begins. as it #rains, green leafs spring from the earth and raise their bodies skyward to feed #mouths wide open to catch the drops, even by way of taps and pipes. the #rain gives color to the death that would become those who fear its floods more blatantly than could any medicine created by the hand of humans intervening. simple #raindrops fill our minds and our flesh and give life where life was not. when it stops, though. that’s when we must worry. when there is no more #rain; if it comes not, there shall be drought. there shall be heat. there shall be open #mouths awaiting droplets and leaves and they shall be dry and empty of all but feet. the earth is a moist and sultry flesh upon which we are but miniature hairs, preparing to fall. its skin grows warmer, more brittle with age and is burned in the sunlight, drying it and allowing the hair to fall from its no longer smooth surface. nothing turns back time, only slows the process but #perhaps that is enough for skin to recover and #rains to return to replenish the droplets, the leaves, fill the #mouths and satisfy the moist awakenings of the goddess within the land. #perhaps we will be witnesses to the awakening. #perhaps it will be too late. #perhaps it already is.
jumping from her chair as she heard the grating sound of metal upon metal, angela reached the window of her cottage on the south downs in time to see a vision that had only appeared possible as a theory in her mind, not something to happen in real life. there was perhaps one #train a day this far out from civilization, two at the most but never running at even similar times. the collision between two, one obviously a passenger #train and the other a flaming mess of burning liquid, was something that she could not understand, believing her eyes or not. running through the door into the snow hanging limp in the air, she called out to her sister without even thinking that she had left for the weekend and could certainly not hear her from her hostel in amsterdam. angela pounded one step after another in the direction of the flames, #fire pouring high into the darkening sky. how could this have happened? there is not another cottage for #miles. by the time anyone else sees the #smoke or expects the #trains to arrive, it will be too late for the passengers.