“mr. porter tried to walk quickly but he seemed to be walking through a tide.  he would never arrive anywhere.  his shoes were ruined, his shirt was ruined, everything was washing away.  the rain was flooding him, passing through him and coming out the other side.  everything was coming undone.  black drops fell from his watchband onto his hands, blue drops fell from his shirtsleeves onto his arms.  have i wasted my life?

“his shirt was running down in blue streams onto his pants, his pants were trickling onto his shoes, his shoes were flowing away in inky streams.  everything was washing away.  his cheeks were running, his eyeglasses were spilling down in bright crystal drops, flesh-colored streams fell from his shining fingertips, he was dissolving in the rain.  in ripples of blue and flesh and tan and black he flowed into the shine of the tar.  for a moment on an empty parking lot a bright puddle gleamed, but then the rain washed it away.“