I wanted to dream again, to see the light before the rain poured upon me, but it came down in sheets that were not soft.

They were outspoken, and I wondered where my voice had gone.

What I’d become.

Had someone stolen it?

Did I let them?

Where is it hiding, and if I shouted out against the rain, would it stop, pause or would it thunder?

Answering me of my own vengeance that I wished to effect upon the world after my own, natural disaster.

Angela K. Crandall


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