kind of rain that you can’t see except in the beams of headlights and in small wet circles of blur on your contact lenses; that you can’t feel except as a pale dampness on your face and arms; that you can’t hear at all.  it mists onto your windshield, red and yellow glitter sprinkled on by taillights and streetlights, sparkling there until your wipers snort it away.

that’s how i feel, physically; as though i have this inner core of light nervous rain with a chance of severe thunderstorms.  the lightning lives inside my ribcage, just underneath my sternum, and it quickens my heartbeat as it gathers strength.  the rest of me is fidgeting, not knowing when or where the lightning will strike first.

this, perhaps, is why i can’t sleep anymore.  i’ll tell you a secret: the sedatives control the weather.