There is only the sound of rain in the darkness. A day spent inside, without the abiding love of Christ.
There are bookshelves to assemble, to affix to the wall. Vertical progress.
Yesterday, there was a two hour drive home in the rain. The people of California reveal themselves most fully in cars, in the rain. They are filled with superstitions and fear, either aggressive or idiotically cautious. Jumpy, as if the evil spirits are out and about to get them. Perhaps they've never seen rain before. The clouds above must keep them perpetually mystified. All that there is to do is join them. I gazed out the window at the seemingly unending grey, sent a few text-messages off into the aether.
Fields. The beginnings of mountains in the near distance that resemble the inevitability of age. Remote shapes like half forgotten fears, disappearing and reappearing in the saturation. All color reduced to a wet ashen hum. No horizon, just ascent.
There is something very primal about it, terrifying, like the ocean at night. The thought of walking into it filled me with dread. It might explain the way people drive. Nobody would choose to die this slowly, not in this weather.