Can'T Believe I Wrote This.........My Voice Doesn'T Carry That Far. Comments

As a kid, I can only ever remember it raining. I’d stare at the fat drops on the window, furious whenever the windshield wipers came by to destroy my art. But the words of protest dripping off my tongue never made it completely out my mouth. Instead the rain would pound on the roof of the car, muting, filling my thoughts. So I just sat and watched. And this would go on and on until we reached our goal, when the car was turned off and there my spell would break.

The first time I got into his car, it was raining. Raining is only a loose term for any type of liquid precipitation; it was pouring, drowning all dry land. The street looked like glass in the dusky afternoon, every light reflected on its surface a thousand fold. He was driving me home.
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