When it rains, it rains, and often there is pain from the stains that remain when the rain hits the frame of the dame, she’s never the same.
As for the rest? It’s the same. Drenched in the stinch and forced to contain the rage in their hearts by the sage in their brain. Each membrane replaced with something less real, each game leaves scars and the flesh can’t heal. Puddles distract them from the act above them and because God Loves them He pours down on them.
With each drop comes cleansing. No more stains. Each dawn brings the sun’s rising. Goodbye rain.
I am Eryka