Wet Again

[rejectomorph]

The neighbor across the street departs early, while it is still dark. The rain (it's been back for about seven or eight hours) makes the event unduly melodramatic. The slick street and wet plants reflect the car's lights, first white, then lurid red as it passes down the block. The place develops a sinister look. I imagine seemingly ordinary neighbors harboring terrible secrets, seething with hidden, evil desires, bodies buried in the crawl spaces of their deceptively commonplace houses. Once the car has turned onto the cross street, taking its red taillight glow, the vision passes and the town is once again its ordinary, dull, rain-sodden self. I'm a bit let down.

No nap tonight. No telling what time I'll wake up. Things just get weirder.