It’s Wednesday. In Boston, thunderstorms seem to know when you need them most. Outside my apartment there is rain hitting the pavement – it sounds like a whole ocean trying to wash things away. I’m convinced the sky is trying to rip itself in half. I think of how similar we are, me & the sky. I don’t know these days which one holds more water, but I don’t think it matters.

This isn’t cold rain. It’s warm Boston thunderstorm. The air tasted like moss this morning. It weighed down on all of us as if it was a second gravity. Lighting is the spine of the sky, when it breaks we watch from our desks like infants. I am always surprised when the things I find fixed in life start breaking.

There is something beautiful about wreckage: the rain, a clouded horizon line, and pools of water on people’s skin. We might all be made under the same sky – making & remaking ourselves amongst the wreckage.

All is quiet underwater. The rain has slowed the city down for now, but when it starts back up it will be different.

Every time I start back up I am a little different.