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A Forecast for Today

"A drizzle I cannot see," said the hunched weatherman shrugging his drenched shoulders. A wrong forecast in his closed umbrella, strangely dry in his coat. A shove pushedhim into the narrow thoroughfare. He silently proclaimed his innocence to the dozens of inconvenienced pedestrians that do not know of him.

But in an inexplicable way, their grievances took the shape of a protruding lump of cement, upon which his feet abruptly halted. In a forward descent, he rotated half a circle and smacked the pavement. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as his extremities were channeling pain to his brain that it successfully acknowledged in one syllable, "Ah!"

A neon gleam carefully incised into him, picking out parts that it could not seduce with its light and placing them on his pupil. He was a man and even a seasoned child, but looking up at the sky, at those ominous clouds, he searched for a space of clarity. When we found an unclaimed edge, he painted it a shade of blue.

The monsoon sky was bound by the buildings and his eyes. He drew constellations of stars he couldn't see but left them in a state of perpetual incompleteness as they disappeared into the boundaries. Perhaps that was the extent of his hope veiled by uncertainty and fright, folding beyond his perception.

He halted at the overpass, didn't like the way street lamps keep out their radiance from underneath. It seemed his world was partitioned by shadows and dampened by rain into the shabby mud that trickled down his collar. He was reflected across shivering in the frigid air, a lamb that threw away the wolf skin, yet eerie of the resemblance.

He is pulled out of that massive turbulence in a cup of tea. The loops of huddled cream held together his animation by throwing him a plank in the belly of a raging storm. The hot ceramic burnt his lip as he looked out of that ruined cottage. A gull tipped his hat at this standing morbidity, a silly man in an unkempt cabin.

The sea roared and exhaled a gust, carrying his brittle grandma away. Her bitter brew reminisced in his nose as he stared blankly into the hole in the floor. He crawled underneath the tumbling house and lay next to the crooked strawman.

Terrified as I am to carve a stone for myself, his fibrous hands drew a fond doodle in the deep seated moss. We looked at each other with blank stares, as thunder rumbled that cabin off its legs. Together with all that baggage, it sunk to the bottom without any damage.

Who was the weatherman and who was crooked? That's for you to decide.


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