It is raining tonight, and the rain in its falling is stirred into a tumult, a chaos of cross-wise winds. More living things than liquid the droplets, adhering as they do in fine fashion to park benches, lamp posts, eyelashes. Enveloping you, dancing above you.
It is raining. The mist swirls. It cascades as though on a sheet, sinuous and alive, folding over onto itself for the sake of the night, its ghosts, its echos and its absence, amorphous, sentient and watching.
Each minuscule droplet–
it is raining–
in this rain like the eye of an entity, looking out onto our side. This world is not ours, we are visitors here, barely tolerated and by and large unwelcome, this reality here cold and alien. Where we are, in these vessels: a point in a time on a field; a coordinate, liquid-Cartesian, in this jewel-like fabric of a distributed intelligence, pitiless, unblinking, measuring the stuff of our make-up. Eyes on you, kiddo.
You’ve caught them in the act, and yet brazenly they swirl on, this private show, this latent presence no longer dissolved–because it is raining, and who will you tell? What will you say? What’s the solution? You saw them? Knew them by the chill that ran up your spine, like when something is watching you from inside your closet? So what. That happens a lot because it’s real.
And you shouldn’t have been looking. Should have been pretending to be asleep. Under the covers. Because it is raining.
Shining in the orange cone of a source scant dispelling darkness, the street-side poles, sentinels, buffeted and without buffer from this psychic play, this permeating ether suborning to the unmasked world metal and stone alike. Lofty and yet earth-bound they meekly spread at their base some small stage on which this spectacle, everywhere, always, may now for your eyes in some shivering way–it is raini–
play. Something waiting for you in each pool of shock-still dark.
It is–know this. Feel it in your bones. Succumb to the sleep. It is r–
Tentative forms recoiling, something unseen and better left unsaid lurking in the dark–
But you went out by yourself and explored when it was raining. You left your light at home and told no one where you’d gone–
“And cadaver-sniffing dogs have been deployed in the search.”
–before this rain, this mist, this moving presence takes on the manner of a coquette, soft and suggestive, to achieve once again union with that same sinister cloak. Now look how it parachutes its body, a celestial jelly, a sparkling manta, lit from within by the few holdout neons–
and then, because it is raining, splits as though with flapping wings torn asunder, (because it is raining) before collapsing back onto itself. And even now, though it should be dispelled by some resurgence of rain, collecting from latent energies the wherewithal to explode out into new forms, capricious, whimsical, antithetical, it rains, it rains–
people just–blink–they’re gone, just like that. And they never come back.
It is rain. Rain-ing. Because it is raining. Watching you. In the rain. Of the rain. A door best locked left open, the entities cross right over, you feel their gaze on your skin, when you’re alone, when–
“It gave full-bore to its issue,” sayeth the gospel, “spattering all below in one swirling climax of impacts.” And they trembled in silence, hidden in dwellings cut through with the sound of the rain. Caves. Houses. Burning living things, making deals the gravity of which they could never understand. And when it rained they made themselves small, knowing that the gods looked on them with disapproval–
People just–one minute you’re there, the next thing you know–people disappear all the time. They get them. The things out there—
Shhhh. They’ll kill us all. They’re listening–
GO TO BED.