Tiny raindrop-bombs plummet ever downwards, speckling my clothing, wetting my skin. The power of the storm moves me - not just the raindrops wetting my skin, but the energy in the clouds whetting the thirst deep within, my very essence. I raise my arms in praise, lift up my voice to join the thunder, let my thoughts fly with the clouds who pour themselves onto my shoulders.
Silver-white lightning paints a blue-gray sky, and tiny crystals fall and shatter on the concrete around my feet. With a passion like truth, or maybe lust, the storm pours out its very Self to the thankless, greedily thirsty synthetic stone, which begs for more, ever thirsty, ever consuming, a true child of the culture that created it. Buildings stand like demi-gods, fluorescent lights show through their windows like cruel eyes that suck the essence from the pathetic beings who reside within them. But still the rain pours forth, knowing that soon these all-consuming parasites will cease to drink in her power. The thirst that drives those concrete creatures, Storm knows, will surely drink itself dry.
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