Living in a Bradbury short.

The rain continued. It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains. It came by the pound and the ton, it hacked at the jungle and cut the trees like scissors and shaved the grass and tunneled the soil and molted the bushes. It shrank men's hands into the hands of wrinkled apes; it rained a solid glassy rain, and it never stopped.

Have you read the short story "The Long Rain" by Ray Bradbury, in The Illustrated Man? It's the one where the crew of Space Patrol guys or whatever crash land on Venus where it rains. And rains. And rains. And people go buggy and kill themselves by running off into the jungle and staring up into the rain until they drown because they can't get out of the rain that never ends. Ever. It just keeps raining. Constantly. Like here in Indy. Constantly.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah, the rain.

It's raining. Again.