Beautiful and nasty

Initially, he only threatened - the sky darkened to the wet asphalt color, and the air filled with wet dust and waiting for the smell. Then the first drop fell. Heavy, lonely, leaving a dark, quickly disappearing coin on a hot sidewalk. After that, the second, the third. And then the sky pierced.

The rain did not raine. It fell with long, glass fingers, wandering into roofs, window sills and cars, creating thousands of different rhythms. A city, a moment before being gray and tired, turned into a giant watercolor. Traffic lights melted on wet asphalt, leaving red and green blood stains. The light of the street lights liquefied, turning into trembling gold poles.

The passing cars were no longer driving - they flown water, their tires hissed as if they were sigh, and the headlights tore out the darkness of the darkness: the mascara on the face of the promotional bench, the grilled yellow maple leaf, cigarette.

The puddles, those asphalt wounds, filled with an restless, inverted sky. They trembled with home reflections, wiring cobwebs and dark, rushing silhouettes covered with newspapers and umbrellas as if they had gone to war with the sky. Every score is a small, broken world. In one of them, a short -lived rainbow was on the greasy petrol film. Beautiful and nasty at the same time.

Gradually the rhythm began to slow down. The glass fingers turned into a gentle palm of glazing the city. The sounds became less frequent, deeper.

Then everything went silent. All you have to do is drop.

From the tin of the windowsill. From the traffic light. From the saddest branches of the tree.

Slow, patient "running time".