Mere seconds ago, rain pounded on the uneven pavement and the boom of thunder resounded in the air. Now, the streets lie exposed and unoccupied. The road offers up its shadowy voice in steamy whispers, tangibly rising from the asphalt. Sticky and hot they wind round and round the street signs, flow from the sewer grates, grip the telephone poles. The sky’s an opaque mix of blue and grey stretched over perfectly even, as if some spiteful Mother Nature clutched a paintbrush, squeezed that color straight from the tube, and spread it all over with angry, broad, cal-q-lah-ting strokes. Telephone wires hang like ostentatious and distasteful Christmas tinsel left out on display long past the appropriate winter season. Every particle present contributes to the glowing, growing gloom.