As though we have the monopoly
on the weather, and whether we deserve it or not is only slightly irrelevant
, as though only we can define what this misting precipitation
'Rain, then. Let's call it rain.'
He keeps trying to call it something else, it is
never anything but rain to me. And even this, this
single syllable word, this is inadequate too, but
still, it is honest.
'Rain is a good word...
we should be like the Eskimos,
24 words to describe our lunacy.'
'Although twenty-four words wouldn't be enough, still,
I doubt rain and an endless string of adjectives will
ever be enough for me either. '
'How are we supposed to explain this to them?'
He grins, and there are a thousand little droplets clustered
in his hairs. How indeed? I duck my head and we pick up
the pace, our pounding feet staking claim to the damp
Node title shamelessly from somewhere in The World I Made For Her, chapter one. Well, not so shamelessly. And I rephrased it slightly. But still, you should know.