It’s a week for opening windows and letting the rain gust in. You’ll always have more towels; but how often do you get the chance to let pure, cool water from the air moisten your lips and curl your hair becomingly over a steaming cup of tea, brewed to meet its maker so thrillingly present in the room? By Tuesday night, you will have sated yourself on the wonders of dark grey and wetness; by Wednesday you will hardly remember what rain smells like. But Thursday and Friday you don’t need to dry yourself out; you’ll find fresh attentions from the heavens, watching your steps and deciding to adorn them with puddles for pudding and slides for laughter. And what else? Your heart will naturally follow your folly, past careworn analysis and into a final, blessed sleep to join the fairies once more with their darling dream-world behind your shuttered eyes, free at last in the wormhole of your mind.
