House of the Singing Waters

It was raining, you see. That sort of soft, slow rain that makes me think of violins playing low and games of damp tag played among the pine trees. It was a warm rain, the color of a pencil sketch streaked with reds and greens of traffic lights, smelling of dust being cleared from the sky. I liked the rain. It made the world seem sparkly and fresh born. A slate cut clean by the hand of the heavens.
( just a little bit, lacking memory )

I'm tired of writing, but I must, you see. So here's a snippet that is stuck in me. It's rattled around in my fevered brain, wanting to be out and play again. There's no telling if it's done, or even started, but here it is, if only half-hearted.

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