Initially, he only threatened - the sky darkened to the wet asphalt color, and the air filled with wet dust and waiting for the smell. Then the first drop fell. Heavy, lonely, leaving a dark, quickly disappearing coin on a hot sidewalk. After that, the second, the third. And then the sky pierced.

The rain did not raine. It fell with long, glass fingers, wandering into roofs, window sills and cars, creating thousands of different rhythms. A city, a moment before being gray and tired, turned into a giant watercolor. Traffic lights melted on wet asphalt, leaving red and green blood stains. The light of the street lights liquefied, turning into trembling gold poles.

The passing cars were no longer driving - they flown water, their tires hissed as if they were sigh, and the headlights tore out of the darkness of individual images: the mascara on the advertising bench face, the grilled yellow maple leaf, cigarette.

The puddles, those asphalt wounds, filled the restless, upturned sky. Reflections of houses trembled in them, cobwebs of wires, and dark, hurrying silhouettes, covered with newspapers and umbrellas, as if they had gone to war with the sky. Each puddle is a small, broken world. In one of them, a short-lived rainbow flashed on the greasy film of gasoline. Beautiful and ugly at the same time.

Gradually the rhythm began to slow down. The glass fingers turned into a gentle palm caressing the city. The sounds became rarer, deeper.

Then everything went silent. All that's left is a drip.

From the windowsill tin. From the traffic light canopy. From the saddest tree branch.

Slow, patient "running time".