This Ship Is Sinking, I Gotta Swim for It http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERdtgGkwwxU

    I cherish the glorious, soft din of the patter of my laptop keys harmonizing with the unrelenting winds and rain beckoning beyond my shelter. Few things fill me with deeper contempt than a world always in motion, never ceasing, never breaking, never bowing, pressing me into the mold, to be like the Energizer bunny, a product of its haste. The rain appeases me in a lifestyle that is just that. The rain is a melody of madness, a cold oxymoron that expresses enmity yet soothes. As I was sitting in solitude, absorbing and meditating on the divine drumming of the storm, a siren split through the sounds of the sky. I immediately entered a frustrated state. Seeing that I live so close to the city, I hear sirens about six times a day. And a day with terenchal winds and waves of rain was no exception, though that makes little sense to me. If, with music on full blast, I can still take in the resonance of rain (more like gallons of rain) pounding against the shingles keeping my head dry, is there really enough dryness in the air for a fire to ignite? Even if water and electricity produces fire, how can a fire thrive in this thrashing gale?
    Either way, fires still happen during storms, even though it seems quite illogical. But today isn't a day for logic, it's a day for listening to the inclement lullaby just outside these walls. Oh, how I adore the aggravated atmosphere, the smashing, soaking sky's tears! And not for the reason every other teenage girl loves it, no. Honestly, romance shromance. Kissing in the rain, shmissing in the rain. All the same and I couldn't care less. Rain is merely the most perfect, breath-taking, intricately sloppy, stunning arrangement of ideas strewn into a violently gorgeous portrayal. It is the culmination of a crisis, a horribly awful event that produces buckets of hope. It is reaching the last hundred yards of hiking a steep mountain - so close, almost tangible, yet so far, so promising and rewarding yet so stripping and paining. It is the last straw, finally, it is the end of the brutal drought. The worst is yet to come, but I forget it about all the strife, all the soreness when I just so much as hear the beating, bruising, beautiful beads from above.