my brother also use to say life's a struggle and then you die, or was it life's a beach. anyway he used to say a lot of silly things that stay with me in some form or another. here's to you brother, i raise my cup of grey rain.

the first text today was from r. bailing on the rainwalk for which no blame. the second text was me saying some days i'd rather die. dramatic, eh. i said i tire of the struggle, poor cycling dog walker. i'm reading the fire this time, so also thinking about slavery, and me never knowing slavery, and crying fate anyway, a slave of fate? sounds melo, right? no, i surely can't relate. and war? my little pale flower, no, i never been to war. but living here, in endless grey, and feeling the soil around my pale roots washed away, in america the world i feel perhaps imaginatively, perhaps empathically, a slave of war.

it's still the same old story. life is struggle r. says. the rain is just rain. it's not even grey. that's just in my eyes. it's just weather, even if it come through the roof. we can bear the weather sure. we can bear the struggle endlessly. it represents nothing, the rain, but itself,
the everness representing nothing but its own struggle.