I won't leave any doubts or stone unturned.
There are certain kind of appreciative echoes within the sight of humans—familiar humans, to be precise in this case— when they get into oversized sweaters and flap their sleeves, when they give you ahold of their favourite belonging, when their eyes cast downwards as they trust you with their struggles. The inside of the old car with only people you've lived with, they have the same genetics you have and they keep on breathing as you too do in the cramped seats. The static tapping sound of rain filtered by the glass windows turned up and I watch as my feet dangle off the dashboard. We breathe and breathe and breathe until the glass windows gets fog all over them, proves to us that we are alive in a way, I guess. I placed my feet on the fog and it looks like the trace such of an animal; like dents.
I thought fondly of all the people I have and will lose, all that I had lose, the ones I had and still do, the ones slipping away. The rain is a curse. It makes me lonely and utter thoughts that are almost kind and tender, but like bruises, they hurt. Even if it's just in the slightest.
