My
house has a
porch. It (the porch) is big, and it wraps around two sides of my house. We also have
couches outside on this porch, which has part of a
roof. You can
sit on these
couches, which
may or may not have
insects in them. You can sit there, watch the
rain pour down, gallon after gallon of the
liquid of life falling from the sky like
piss or a
gift from
God.
Lightning flashes. Count the seconds. 5 per mile 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 thunder. Just over a mile. Another flash, this time the thunder happens just as soon as the lightning and it's louder than the trains that used to roll by your old apartment. You see a transformer across the street on a pole shoot sparks, but you're still half-blind from the light. You could feel the air expand and contract from the intense heat.
The lights in the apartment building across the street are out. You turn to go inside and turn off your computer, but before you can get in, you see more light, then silence from everything but your heart. Slow. Slower. Stop.