Night kind of falls, leaving a musky dark grey-blue sky.
It is 7 pm and there’s a commotion outside again. Sounds like a tsunami rushing upon the house, but it’s just rain again. Oh, wait. It’s white hail!
I climb onto my bed and look out the window, bobbing a little. I step out onto the old creaky wood balcony (attached to the house at the last minute and left to rot for years) to look at the hail. I wished my roof didn’t jut out so much so I could stick my hand out and feel the hail hit my hand.
The rushing sound outside is incredible, and torrents of water are flowing southwards in the back alley. I look over to my neighbour’s house and see a man in a pink hoodie standing on his balcony, looking at the hail just as I was doing. I turn and we make eye contact, and we both say hi. Then I walk back inside.
Romanticism is dead in this post-modern age.