Le ciel est tombé sur ma tête

It’s raining. It’s raining the kind of rain that falls with wicked violence. At times it seems it is a special kind of rain, a sentient rain. The droplets, having reached terminal velocity, hit your hat, wiggle through the knitted wool and impact your hair, but often they simply aim for the thin live of uncovered skin between the rim of the watch-cap and the collar of the rain jacket. There they pool together, and slowly, steadily they snake down your spine. The only respite from those comfort assassins is indoors, in dry, clean clothes.