The night was pierced by the puzzling precipitation, seemingly snow or rather rain, yet somehow slipperier than sleet. Could you call it slush? Is slush slush if it is not made slush, slush in the eye of the beholder? This question couldn't have been further from my mind than it was on this particular night. The precipitation, whatever it was, fell on my shoe, and stained it, darkly.
I was a man with no overcoat, and as I walked slowly down the the dark street, I felt this loss more and more and more. I was wet.
Does anyone know why this happens, why the night soaks into us like a lemon-lime slurpy drink on a white cotton sweater worn to a homecoming game? Well, if anyone does know, he or she isn't talking. So why couldn't I get it out of my mind? Sure, blame it on El Nino, but I had a funny feeling, and it wasn't the precipitation, whatever it was, on my shoe, staining it brown, dark brown.
It was dark outside, being the night and all. As I walked down the street, I passed by a pet store, and a barber shop, and a gas station, and a few boarded up businesses, and some funny looking buildings that I couldn't say much about except that they weren't houses, that's for sure. Wasn't I just like those buildings, neither a house nor a storefront? Wasn't I architechturally ambiguous, just like them, unidentifiable, unrecognizeable, of questionable structure, with marble veneer on the front? Well, no, not really.
I came to a door, and because it's what one does with doors, I opened it and stepped through the opening that it made. Here, inside, no precipitation fell. Here, it was light. Outside, darkly, it was still the night, and one thing was for sure: some awful funny precipitation was coming down.
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