Writing this whole walking, the skies overcast and thick. Smells like nature is getting plump, ready to burst it’s musk into the air. That feeling that space itself is holding back, by a thin thread of time that’s ready to snap. As if we’re walking the path of the beam, this wheel, this destiny, pulling us towards the center in a shower of intense rainfall. The water glistens with a billion sparkling galaxies in each drop, leaving it’s mark on the broken ground, the evaporating evidence of it’s own destiny. How long will it take gravity to claim the raindrop that houses our universe?