nostalgia-factory

It is raining. Pouring endlessly. As if the sky has something against the earth, and is dropping the biggest drops of water it can. It is silent outside, except for the steady rain; everyone is huddled inside their rooms like us. I have my face pressed against the window. It is cold, even though we have the fire cracking and popping in the grate. The fireplace. We are in a military hotel. The furniture is eastern; dark mahogany, polished wood. You are asleep on the bed. I do not turn around as you murmur in your sleep. I do not wish to see you; it takes me back to things I do not wish to think of. It is raining. A steady pitter-patter, as if