Little beads of rain are lugubriously collecting on the windowsill. Threads of silver melancholy are racing down your curved surfaces and pooling into elbow shaped crevices. It is stealthily seeping into cracks, dispersing into the fibres of your clothes. Windows are framed with tracings of dust melded with tears and clinging vapour. Tense domes of collective effort are forming hundreds of fish eyes impassively staring out from the bonnets of idle cars. Despite being 80% water we are all endeavouring to ward off the rain with an arsenal of pointed, clawed umbrellas. Once again; the peculiar dichotomy of our papery dry exteriors versus our dank and soggy interiors. Stay dry. Keep hydrated. Do not drown. You are a glamorous bag of squish and liquid.
On the train again, awkwardly melting in the heat of so many bodies; zipped up, buttoned in, wrapped around in fabric thickness against the outside air. Safe inside the warmed compartment, cocoons start unravelling and rumpled moths stagger out of serpentine scarves and possessively hugging coats. There is a collective exhalation from the hatchlings as the excess is shed and spurned. Suffocated skin sighs. The carriage swells to accomodate our fake fur and despondency.
I love the rain.