I happen to like them, they inspire me. They compel me to turn inward and embrace the true me. It’s not that way of the masses however, I am aware. Weaklings merely tolerate a rainy day. Everything must be so perfect for them, so, what is the word, oh yes, comfortable (weak). To my mind a chill breeze, some mid-day darkness courtesy a sky full of dark foreboding cumuli nimbus clouds is bliss. To the others those attributes are a recipe for gloom that drains the joy from even the cheeriest of souls. Still, we do share a common thread, the weaklings and I. That is to say that we all enjoy the peace of a warm fire and the comfort some hot soup or cocoa brings to either turn accentuate or compensate for such a day, like today. The steam from my bowl of soup envelopes my face with warmth and an aroma from Nirvana itself. Through the pleasant mist I watch the rain fall steadily, the fat drops bouncing so hard off the pavement that they seem to race back to the cloud they came from. The little café is crowded with workers eating a morning meal before they trudge onto work in the downpour.
