6/25/2002

it only rains when i’m asleep, anymore.  i wake up to wet streets that were dry before, dripping trees that didn’t used to drip, spotted windshields that had been clean.  people say, “hey, did you hear that huge thunderstorm last night?” and i have to say no, i didn’t, i slept right through it.  sometimes i think they’re lying.  it didn’t rain.  it’s just some sort of vast conspiracy to keep me from watching the summer-school kids below try not to get wet as i sit on the third-floor walkway of agnes arnold hall, to keep me from listening to rain and hail hit the living-room window as i read alone in my apartment.  if this is in fact a conspiracy, it’s working, and it’s making me sad.