9
At night the rain powered up, pouring into the blue skies of sleep where tiny ships were scurrying hither and thither. The little boats were not registered in any port, each sailed blithely on, over the ocean, or by the shore, and the shores opened to them.
And the man in the moon looked on approvingly, though many believe him to be a mere splodge. “Maybe he really is a spreading splodge?” Milkiness overflowed into N.’s thoughts. “It’s not easy to be forever watching the life of others from your own existence in non-existence.”
In the morning the rain, which had paused at dawn, came down again. Uncalled-for August rain. Uncalled-for indeed: it arrived from autumn, summer would not admit it, yet still it seeped in, and everything was soaked: it was damp in the attic, there was nowhere
