These are the kinds of things that can barely be dreamt up:

The crackle and static of air heavy with clouds before it begins to pour

I walked in the rain yesterday, beneath a shuddering black umbrella;
watched the fog roll lush and impetuous across a dark band of tropical trees

The rain gently bruising the opaque green water that was nevertheless patient in its steady loveliness.

The shadows seemed to encroach from the sides of my vision, from the trees, instead of the darkening sky. A strange, illusory mirage.

Buses and cars hum and splash as they momentarily enter and exit my awareness of this spun and grey hung evening.

This is the kind of thing that can hardly be dreamt up:
The thick pane of glass between us, about to shatter under the weight of an impending storm, invisible and stark.

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