The Writer and The Rain

He turns the page and listens quietly. The rain begins to pick up as it launches itself against the single small window in his room where the moon normally shines through, illuminating his dark and damp basement in a tender glow. Only, tonight the moon is hidden and the sound of rain is the only entity he is greeted by.

He restlessly shuts his journal while his eyes lightly come to a close and rests the beat up and torn paged book against his chest. Tonight he didn’t throw the dingy leather journal across the shallow room to collide with his trophy collection that resides on the wooden table in the corner of his room. Instead he allows the journal to rest against his bare chest, bringing the book to finally meet his heart, the birthplace of the words that live within the sad torn and wrinkled pages of his journal.

Soon he will realize that what he desires is not so far away from him, all he has to do is turn yet another page, but not only in the pages of his journal, but in the pages of his life. He will realize the sound of rain is still company, the torn pages of his journal are still worthy of his writing, and the small, dark basement he sleeps in can be a great place to dance. All he needs is to open himself up, let the words pour out, and find a dancing partner.

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